Flaws In Science
by recycled-stars
Summary: An AU version of Season 3, featuring a slightly introspective Mark trying to figure out when exactly, in going from A to B, life became such a melodramatic mess. And an attempt to reach a resolution with Derek and Addison.
1. This Is How It Works

Author's Notes: So I started posting this years ago, and it took me over 12 month to finish it, and hell, probably no one's reading it, but I'm kind of still proud of it. I wrote it when I was sixteen, so you'll have to forgive me that. **An AU version of Season Three. **

Mark/Addison kind of, but mostly Mark-centric dealing with Mark/Addison/Derek and all combinations thereof. An attempt to give Mark layers. Like an onion. Or an ogre. Plus my favourite kind of Addison to start: the drunk kind. SMIRK.

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**Chapter One: This Is How It Works.**

You're not exactly trying to interrupt their little 'moment'. You roll your eyes a little and correct yourself: you didn't exactly have to try. They were sitting in the middle of the room at the bar for crying out loud. Everyone who was looking could see. And besides, you wanted a drink. Wanted? _Needed_, you _needed_a drink.

Especially after the little spectacle Addison appears to be trying to make of herself.

So you palmed your glass and stood behind them, not watching so much as looking past their faces, over Alex Karev's shoulder and past Addison's head and staring, vaguely at the wall.

She pulls back first, a breathless giggle escaping her lips and if you didn't already know, it now seems certain that she's drunk.

You let your glass slam against the bar top a little and sit down beside Alex Karev giving them no other indication of your presence. It has the desired effect though: Addison looks up and a hand flies to her mouth, Karev turns around and scowls.

"She's drunk," you inform him, "Not unable to walk but definitely unable to maintain a straight course from A to B."

"Leave her alone," he glares at you.

"I'm telling you," you shrug and stare at the bottom of your glass, "She's drunk."

"Mark," she has slumped against the bar top, her head is resting on her hand, her elbow propped against the polished wood. She sounds bitter, despondent, tired. You wait for her to say more but that's all it is, just your name and a pout.

"Hey Addison," you nod at her and trace the rim of your glass absently.

"Go away," she tells you, making a sweeping gesture with one hand and grabbing onto the bar, eyes wide with alarm as she tries to steady herself, "Go back to New York. Go home."

You cough a little, due to the stupid cold, and take a sip of scotch, eyeing Karev pointedly, "She's drunk."

"I think," he says in a low angry voice and you want to laugh, because it feels like the equivalent of a terrier growling at a German Shepherd, "That of the two of us, I am more likely to look after her best interests than you are."

You do laugh at that, mirthlessly, "Sure. Whereas I think that you and I both know that you're going to take advantage of her and that she won't stop you."

"And you won't?" he narrows his eyes at you.

You shrug, "She's used to waking up beside me and regretting it."

It's not meant to sound as bitter as it does.

"You're an ass," he snaps, "You treat her like shit."

"Don't fool yourself," you sigh, "She's not a saint."

The 'she' in question is currently making a face as she swallows what remains of her drink in two gulps and thoroughly disinterested in the conversation.

"That doesn't give you an excuse to be a jerk," he hisses.

"Look kid," you really don't feel like having this conversation, "Talk to me in ten years. Until then, just trust me when I tell you that you don't want to be that guy."

He looks at you, curiously now.

"What?" you almost laugh at him again, he's so fucking young that it hurts, "You think that she _loves_you? You think that she has any feelings for you at all? You're there Alex," you suddenly realise you need to be drinking more and talking less, or at least drinking more before you talk about this; it's too fucking painful otherwise, "You're just there. And she'll pretend it's what she wants, oh, she'll do a fucking wonderful job of it too except then there'll be the times when you can tell she's not really there. She'll cry sometimes, she'll lie awake and cry silently for hours. Nothing you say will matter. She'll be lost somewhere inside herself. She'll tell you it's what she wants but do her best to push you away. She'll lie," you shrug, more drink, "She lies. You don't want to be the idiot who believes her."

"How do you know it won't be different?" he challenges you.

You shrug, "You think that you'll sleep with her and she'll want to pretend it never happened or you think that you wouldn't cheat on her. On both counts no, she's not that kind of girl. It will matter to her. She'll pretend she likes you, that she was interested, that she knew what she was doing. She's old-fashioned. If she was sober you'd be lucky to get her to kiss you on the first date. And if you think that after weeks, months of her shit you won't be coming here and drinking until you don't remember the girl's name you're even dumber than I thought you were."

"Why the fuck do you hate me so much?"

And suddenly it's not about her at all and you don't want to talk about this. You wouldn't be talking to Alex Karev at all if it wasn't about her.

"Because," you say dismissively, "You're a suck up."

He immediately takes offence, "You know what? Fuck you. All I wanted was a chance to learn from you. Miserable son of a fucking bitch that you are."

"I liked you better when you were sucking up," you mutter dryly, "This has nothing to do with you. I don't give a fuck about what you do really. But you so much as touch her," you warn, "And I will hit you so fast and so hard that you won't even know what happened until you're having your jaw screwed back into place."

"What'cha boys whispering about over here?" Addison smiles at you both lazily and slightly lopsidedly, teetering on the three-inch stilettos and standing between you. When she falls forward against the bar top and smiles at Joe you immediately shuffle right and push a stool behind her before she falls over.

"Drunk," Karev mumbles.

You shoot him a look and nod.

"Well?" she sings, reaching out with her hands and resting them on your thigh and Karev's. Your hand immediately closes over hers. She looks up in surprise and the giggles end abruptly. You run your thumb over the side of her hand and squeeze a little. She grips yours tighter and turns back to face Karev with a huge smile on her face. You can tell from the tone of her voice that it doesn't quite meet her eyes.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder and leans closer to Karev, her elbow propping up her face. She's laughing at something he's saying but it's her hollow drunk laugh, the one you've seen her use on men before. It's been fifteen years but it hasn't changed much.

Politely, you turn back to your drink, resting half full on the bar top and pointedly look the other way. She has dragged your hand from your thigh to hers and is running it along the inside of her leg along the seam of the silk trousers. You swallow the amber liquid and try to concentrate on the burn rather than the sloppy kissing noises and low laughter from her. Finally, she sits upright and promptly falls sideways against you, her head resting on your shoulder.

"Mark," she says, smiling but still sad. She tucks your hand beneath her thigh and her fingers circle your wrist, "Oh Mark."

"Addison," you tell her, "You're drunk."

"Mmm," she considers this momentarily, and sounds almost sleepy, "I suppose I am."

"And people are going to talk," you say a little more pointedly.

"Bout what?" she is nuzzling against your arm, clearly intent on napping for a short while before resuming her conquest of Alex Karev, who is nursing his third beer and eyeing you both, alternately staring at the skin exposed by the top button of her shirt which has somehow come undone in all of this and glaring at you.

You push her sideways a little and bend down to whisper in her ear, "Addison, it looks like you're putting the moves on both of us. At the same time."

She smirks and eyes you, purring, "What if I am?"

You shake your head and rest your chin against her shoulder, "Do you want to be kissing this kid? Or is it just the alcohol?"

"Mmm," her eyes are closed again and she rests her head against yours, "Are you jealous that I'm kissing him?"

"I just want to know what you want," you say, neutrally, because your own feelings on the matter are somewhat confusing to explain. For the moment your primary concern is looking out for her. It's a habit formed after years of experience. In med-school she instantly transformed from the straight-arrow studious daddy's girl into the life of the party after what seemed to you to be one or two drinks. And Derek was always under the table by eight o'clock so you've developed an instinctive need to protect her when she's drinking.

She smiles, a genuine lazy smile and says, "Do you remember when we first met?"

You pull backwards and tug at her hand, "Addison, do you want to go home?"

"Shh," she waves you off and leans backwards, nudging Karev in the side, "I'm telling a story."

The first thought that comes to mind is: 'oh, here we go'.

"The first time that I met Mark," she giggles and you watch Karev looking more and more thoughtful, even when her fingers scrape against his jeans, "I was… drinking," she snickers to herself, "A little. And staring, you remember?" she turns to you so you nod a little, "I was staring at Derek and he came over and said hello," she reaches out with her unengaged hand and grabs your drink, finishing it neatly before wiping her hand with the back of her mouth and causing her lipstick to trail across her cheek, "And rattled off my entire schedule so I thought he was stalking me. But then he introduced himself as Derek's best friend and I told him," she raises your entwined hands to point at you but goes a little too far, jabbing you in the nose, "I told him that Derek had to ask me out himself, because we weren't in grade school any more. You remember?"

"Yeah," you offer, "I remember."

"And ever since," she confesses, "I have wondered why the hell he was talking to me instead of hitting on some other girl. I always wondered why," she sighs and falls against Karev this time. His arm is halfway around her hips when he hesitates and wraps it around her shoulder instead, purely to steady her.

You smile a little in satisfaction.

"Why," she blinks at you, "There were always other girls."

She's stopped making sense; the sentence is dislodged and incomplete. You shake your head at her, in an exasperated, disapproving, sad kind of way, and look at your empty glass.

"Anyway," she promptly turns her head but it's just a flash of red in your peripheral vision, "He's always funny when I'm drunk. But you're not," she's cooing to Karev now and you feel her fingers dig into your hand. She wants you to look and you're determined not to, "You're not being funny with me at all."

"Would you like me to be funny with you?" Karev responds, in a voice that's familiar to you because you've used it before.

"Oh," her hand makes contact with his shoulder and she laughs lightly, "I think so."

"Then why are you sitting next to him?"

It is, you admit, a very good question – also a complex one, a can of worms maybe – but a good one just the same.

"Because," she lowers her voice to a loud whisper and you're probably not meant to hear her answer, "He's my Mark."

In retrospect, given her state of inebriation, it was always going to be a disappointing admission.

"Because I'm drunk," she continues in hushed tones, jabbing a finger into Karev's shirt and smiling all the while, "And because he's my Mark he'll look after me if _you_try anything funny Mister," she laughs to herself, "In case I don't notice."

"What counts as funny?"

"Lot's of stuff," she's flirting shameless and you absently wonder how long she'll be able to exert this kind of pressure on your hand before her nails break the skin, "Try it," she smiles, "And I'll tell you if it counts."

"I'm not allowed to touch you," Karev mutters, under his breath, but you catch it because you're not looking at them and listening intently.

"Oooh why?" she pulls away from you and drags your hand between her legs again.

"Because," Alex shrugs, "Your boyfriend threatened to beat me up if I did."

"He's not my boyfriend," she pouts, sexily, "He's my… Mark. He's just Mark."

And, you think, that was always it. You were 'just Mark' as though the 'just' made everything and anything you did with her ok. It downplayed the importance of anything you felt for her, of anything you wanted from her. It justified whatever she demanded of you and left you with no room to have human emotions. You were 'just Mark' which was a way of saying 'arrogant womaniser extraordinaire' and 'immature asshole' in two syllables, a way of making sure you never felt or said anything of importance, making light of your actions because they could never be considered serious. You were 'just Mark' which was a way of saying 'Derek's best friend' in a shorter sentence, taking the familiarity and friendship that you shared with _her_and trivialising it, hiding it by making it an extension of your friendship with Derek.

You were 'just Mark'.

That she slept with you once, when you were all 21-years-old in your first semester of med school? Didn't matter, because you were 'just Mark'.

That she kissed you once, a year later, when she was dating Derek? Also highly irrelevant, because you were 'just Mark'.

That for eleven years she let her hands linger against yours if you reached for the same thing at the same time, or her fingers curl around your arm whenever you really talked to her didn't matter. That for eleven years you tucked her hair behind her ears and she half-smiled, half-sighed every time you did didn't matter. That for eleven years you loved her and for eleven years she would sigh over the prospect of 'what if?' was completely beside the point because you were, are, always will, just be Mark.

According to Addison, despite not containing a single adjective, those two words sum you up perfectly. It's the best excuse, the most inadequate description and the most infuriating phrase that has ever been associated with you.

You send a fake smile in Joe's direction though and ask him for another drink. You need one. She'll probably pick up the poor kid and want you to guard the door and hell, you are not going to do that sober.

You're the safety net in all of this; you can tell she has no idea what's she's doing by the tight grip she has on your hand and you know that's she's clinging to it because no matter what else has happened, you'll always be the one that dragged her up four flights of stairs to her dorm room before she passed out in college. You'll always be the one that mopped up the bathroom floor when she and Derek thought it would be neat to polish off two bottles of vodka and you'll always be the one that she called when she was drunk, the one that it didn't matter with; if she slept with you or called you names or told you her deepest secrets, it didn't matter. You were Mark, a better drinker than both of them put together and perpetually without an intoxicated girlfriend of your own to look after.

So you know she's halfway between happy horny drunk and completely disorientated, paranoid drunk.

And you know that she won't let you leave her, even though the last place you want to be is sitting beside her while she whores her mouth to Alex Karev's tongue. You resist the urge to tell them they should learn to kiss a little quieter, in the interests of etiquette.

Karev, poor bastard, still seems to think he has a chance even though she's rambling in a soft teasing voice between kisses, telling him all sorts of nonsense and taking longer and longer to string the words together every time.

Finally she giggles at Alex and says, "My Mark looks pissed, and not in the good way."

You try not to scowl, but honestly, if your 21-year-old self had known what he was signing up for all those years ago you wouldn't have done Derek the fucking favour. You would have told him to suck it up and talk to her himself. And he never would have had the guts. Privately, you wonder if you would all be better off.

"Are you mad at me?" she blinks up at you from beneath her eyelashes, sounding contrite.

"No," you say it sarcastically but she's probably too far beyond drunk to notice, "No everything's great Addison. Really, best end to a shitty day I've had in ages."

"That's my fault isn't it?" she sighs, "You blame it all on me, you say we would have been happy when realistically it was never going to be like that Mark."

"Addison," you tell her, "The time, place and your blood alcohol concentration seem inappropriate for this conversation."

"No you know what?" she glares and wrenches her hand from yours, folding her arm around her middle defensively, "Screw it. It wasn't just my fault. You can't talk in what ifs and all-or-nothing hypotheticals. This is shit ok? Things right now? Are just shit but it's not a question of whether we would have been happy or unhappy, whether it would have been shit or not, it's a question about just how shit it would have been and whether we're better off. So don't talk in fucking absolutes. It's fucked now and it would have been fucked if I hadn't, so in the end, it's fucked anyway and it doesn't fucking matter."

"Hey," Karev looks alarmed at this outburst, and the cynic in you tells you it's because his hopes of getting laid are becoming but a distant memory, "Hey," he puts his arm around her and rubs at the skin beneath her sleeve as she lets her head rest on her hands and sobs softly.

Then he glares with you, as though you had something, anything to do with it.

Fuck him, you think as you clench your jaw, as if he has any fucking idea what's going on and as if he has any fucking right to an opinion.

"Addison," you begin, trying to ignore the pesky need you always feel in these situations to act like a complete ass and instead, focussing on being the mature, responsible, sober one, "You've had too much to drink…"

"Do you think it was _easy_?" she cuts you off and spits the words, tears still rolling down her cheeks, "Do you think I _liked_ having the wonderful experience of killing my child? Do you think it's something I'm _proud_of? God Mark, are you that fucking immature that you can't see that it was the lesser of two evils? And you know what? That doesn't make it hurt less. Are you happy? I'm fucking miserable. Are you happy? Is that what you want?"

"No," you admit quietly and Karev sort of stares at you both as if he's suddenly realised he's involved over his head in something he has no desire to be involved in. It serves him right of course, because you warned him.

"No, I don't want you to be fucking miserable," you continue, standing up and tugging at her elbow, "I want you to get up and let me take you home, because you're drunk and you're screaming personal things not just at me, but at a room full of strangers."

She sniffs and wipes at her cheeks, "That's why you're Mark, you're not meant to let me do that."

"We're not 21-years-old anymore Ad," you observe a little wistfully, "You have a hell of a lot more reason to scream at me and I have a hell of a lot less to say for myself."

"This is just shit," she repeats her earlier words, softer this time, "It fucking _sucks_."

Karev sort of smiles at her in vague amusement and you wonder if that's where she picked up that particular terminology.

"How'd it all happen?" she whispers, "Yesterday we were young and happy and we were all friends. Derek and I were in love and you are I were screwing around but none of it mattered, not really, because we were so young then, we were going to fucking conquer the world, we were going to be the world's best surgeons, nothing was going to stop us," she laughs, bitterly, "You know what's so fucking ironic about it all? Nothing did, our lives were going to be fucking perfect and nothing stopped that but us."

She turns to the intern and waves a finger in his face, "Listen to me Alex. You're still so young; you haven't made any mistakes, not the big ones anyway. You're still learning how to be an adult, how to be a surgeon, how to be up to your eye balls in debt instead of racking up said debt at med school," she swallows and meets his eyes, "So listen to me when I tell you to fuck things up, make mistakes, because that's how you learn but don't make the really big ones. Don't make the ones that you regret. Don't do and say the kind of things that you can't take back. And do it the hard way. Pick the dangerous girl. Don't settle for plastics if you want neonatal. Don't do neonatal because you think sleeping with me will get you ahead. And for fucks sake, don't fall in love more than once. It's too fucking painful the first time."

"Hey," Karev puts a hand on her arm and bends down to look up at her, "Thanks for the advice."

She laughs a little even though she's still crying, "You're welcome. I don't even know if it made sense, but you're welcome."

"I think we should take you home," he says cautiously, looking up at you for confirmation.

You nod and hand over a wad of notes, thanking Joe.

"Ok?" Karev is still trying to coax her onto her feet so you just hover beside them, knowing he'll need help keeping her upright.

"Yeah," she nods slowly, squashing her nose into her face with her palm, "Ok."

She lets him pull her up and slings an arm around his shoulders, leaning all her weight against him but somehow managing to walk on the heels anyway. You shrug at Karev and tell him he can drive her to the hotel if he wants. From where you're standing, she owes him a few more of those drunk kisses and some light groping for his patience. You watch the intern pulling her across the room and wonder if she was ever a gymnast; her balance on those ridiculous shoes given her inebriation is amazing.

Most things about her are.

You're yet to figure out why she's the only woman you can honestly say has ever amazed you.

You think it's yet another way the universe has decided to prove that it hates you.

At risk of wallowing in these admittedly irrational yet sometimes seemingly justified thoughts, you ask Joe to call you a cab and stifle another dry cough.

Suddenly you realise you have a throbbing headache and that your throat aches. Of course, you think, because your week is all sunshine and rainbows as it is, having a cold just adds to the wonderful experience.

You're waiting for them when Karev drags her into the lobby, soaking wet from the rain and shivering slightly. You don't want to know what took them so long and you don't care to think about the possibilities. It's enough that she's here and she's safe, and that Alex Karev has just said goodnight and walked out, car keys in hand.

She's huddling against your side as you wait for the elevator and you can tell the room is still spinning for her because she twists around every so often, rotating her hips and throwing her arms out to keep herself balanced.

You shrug off your jacket and drape it over her shoulders, taking her right hand in your left and resting your other hand on her hip. She leans backwards against you and sighs a little, "Mark?"

You echo the rise and fall of her shoulders and exhale in defeat, "What?"

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

You don't have the slightest clue what she's talking about, so you shrug and say, "It's ok."

"No," she shakes her head with closed eyes and you push her forward into the elevator, waiting until she is gripping the sides with her hands and leaning backward against the wall before pressing the button for the twenty second floor.

"No," she repeats, letting her body sink down until she's sitting on the floor, her hands gripping her knees, "I'm sorry about everything."

"It'll be ok," you insist, offering her both hands to help her stand again.

She shakes her head again and yawns, "I think I'll just sit for a while."

"Up," you persevere, "Ours is the next floor."

Sleepily, she grasps for your hands and it's almost like a game: she throws her arms about wildly and you try to catch them. Finally you succeed and pull her upright, helping her down the corridor and stopping in front of her door. She promptly slumps against it and slides to the ground once more.

"Just for a minute," she promises.

"Are you ok?" you ask her suspiciously, because she has that queasy look about her and you wonder if she's going to be sick.

"In a minute," she repeats, raising her hand to her mouth and gagging slightly, "I'm fine, I promise. I just need a second."

"Ok," you concede, leaning against the door yourself until she tugs at your clothing, patting the ground beside her.

"Sorry about the drunk thing too," she mutters wryly, resting her head against your shoulder when you sink to the floor beside her.

"I'm used to the drunk thing," you tease.

"I know," she shrugs and hides her face in your sleeve, "But I still feel bad about making you put up with me after all these years."

"At least I'm not holding the hair out of your face," you hit your head against her door, listening to the hollow thud.

"While I vomit in the kitchen sink," she laughs a little at the memory, "No, I suppose so."

"There's been worse," you muse.

"Funny how the drunken incidents tend to get less memorable as you get older," she sighs, "And the emotional clusterfucks tend to get much worse."

"This drunken incident was pretty memorable," you remind her, in case she's forgotten, "You've probably single-handedly sent the rumour mill into overdrive."

She groans, "Was it really that bad?"

"You yelled at me," you recall, "Loudly."

"You deserved it," she murmurs quietly.

"Maybe I did," you agree.

"But that was unfair of me," she confesses, "Because I should have given you the opportunity to yell back and at least had a proper argument about it. You know, the old-fashioned he-said she-said kind where you blame me for everything and I blame you for everything, things are said in anger that we can't take back, we hate each other for a while and I possibly hurl things across the room at you."

"That's what we did best," you tell her, "We fought well as a couple."

She snorts, "Yeah. Yeah we did. We cared enough to argue."

"We always argued," you close your eyes, "From the minute we met."

"We always cared," she counters.

"Yeah," you nod against the wall.

"It wasn't all your fault," she says, "I know you never stopped sleeping around, I'm not an idiot but it wasn't all your fault. I," she laughs at herself, "I was still married and I made you move into the brownstone even though you hated it for what it represented. And I screwed up my pills and I let you get away with all the other women because I just thought you deserved that at least," she hugs her knees a little tighter, "I ruined everything you had. I didn't think I deserved whatever it was you felt for me. I didn't think I had the right to ask you to change. So it's my fault too."

"We both fucked it up," you sigh again, "It always takes two."

"Three," she corrects, "We all fucked it up. All three of us."

You have nothing to say to that so you help her stand again and fumble in the back pocket of her pants for her keys. You open the door for her and watch her stumble across the room before collapsing on the bed. You have to smile at least a little fondly at that, her ridiculous signature heels hanging over the side and her designer clothes still damp from the rain.

You pull the shoes from her feet and tug the covers out from under her.

She's right of course, you probably wouldn't have been happy even if you were together because neither of you really knows what happiness is. Privately you think you'd be willing to learn, if she wanted.

You push her hair out of the corners of her mouth and roll her sideways, tucking her knee across her body to anchor her and it's a flashback to first aid in high school. You always leave her like this, just in case she decides to choke on her own vomit in her sleep. You've seen it happen, in your years as a doctor, and you're not really worried. Like most things you do, it's not borne from anxiety at the the prospect just the prospect itself.

So you sigh and watch her sleep, her mouth open against the covers making a wet patch on the sheets, and you wonder how the fuck you all got here. Life has always happened around you, not to you. When you were 21 you had visions, dreams, plans. You'd never been in love and considered the idea trite but you weren't above being proven wrong. Most of what you hoped to achieve in life related to surgery, but ten years later when you opened your own practise on Park Avenue you realised it was never going to be enough. The success, the money, the reputation and all the rest of it were always going to disappoint you. Women always disappointed you. Life experiences were always anticlimactic. You didn't know what it was you were looking for so how the fuck could you find it? But you still had that idea, that vision, that one day you'd figure it all out. Inside you were still 21. And you existed in a sort of time warp. Things happened, but they didn't matter, they weren't real, you were just biding time.

And now you sit here and watch her sleep thinking that maybe you were really wasting time. You still don't know what you want or how you're going to find it. You still think life is anticlimactic. You're not bitter exactly, but you do understand what she says when she tells you it doesn't really matter. It doesn't, nothing does. You'll both keep breathing.

Somewhere along the line, between medical school and surgical residency, you came to appreciate that if you're breathing and your heart is beating you're doing ok. Things might not be perfect, but they're comfortable. There's a definite rhythm, contract-relax, in-out, seconds then the repeat.

Medicine is for cynics.

Whether it changed you, made you apathetic, or whether you just started out that way is anyone's guess. But you're ok. You're breathing. You have a pulse. This is what you deal with. Abstract measures of wellness are for psyche residents. Physically, it doesn't matter.

You let the door close behind you and realise you're still wondering how the fuck you got here.


	2. Some Days Are Better Than Others

**Chapter Two: Some Days Are Better Than Others.**

You have a theory about the meaning of life and the origins of the universe. Essentially, you believe that creation was an accident. According to the principle of energy conservation and Newton's first, the nothingness that was the initial universe should have remained. Thus, the very existence of life on earth defies the fundamental principles of physics.

It logically follows that nothing that happens to you should make sense.

While your mother offered you little other lasting advice, she did explain the same concept to you at the age of five in much simpler terms when you demanded an explanation as to why you were forced to eat something as green and disgusting as broccoli: because, she said gravely, life is unfair.

It's the only thing your mother ever told you that you didn't later find out was either a complete lie or just grossly misguided. You still find that ironic.

You're not religious and you've seen enough decent people die on the table over the years to make you think karma is a deluded concept that, like most things made in India, provides a quick fix to a lasting problem of the human condition.

It used to drive Derek nuts that you thought it was all chance; that you would wager the probabilities and make bets with fellow interns because whether the patient lived or died had nothing to do with fate and a lot more to do with the possibility of multiple system organ failure.

It used to drive Addison nuts that you would explain to her that the universe was random, cruel and undiscriminating and then complain that it was also conspiring against you. She used to tell you it was a contradiction in terms. You'd tell her that since quantum physics; contradictions in terms were viable scientifically. (Which wasn't strictly true, but she appreciated the joke nonetheless.)

It still bothers you, that life is fundamentally meaningless, that you're going to breathe in and out until something happens to disrupt the flow of energy through the closed system that is your body, that then you'll stop breathing and start rotting in the ground somewhere. It still bothers you that life is unfair and that it doesn't make sense.

Case in point: this morning, you woke up feeling even worse than yesterday. You couldn't talk for about half an hour after you forced yourself out of bed, you felt sick in the stomach and you briefly considered the possibility that your skull was contracting and crushing your brain. It was like a second day hangover; the kind you experience when you miss the first day one because you're still unconscious.

And you think that's possibly the most unfair thing that could happen given that last night, you drank exactly nothing. Addison, on the other hand, will of course be annoyingly chipper this morning since no matter how much alcohol she consumes, she never seems to be hungover. Dear universe, you groan to yourself, please have the decency to punish everyone else for once because I am sick of being your scapegoat.

You are forced to pause for a while outside the elevator by a fit of coughing.

Literally, you add, literally sick of it.

You stop at the hospital pharmacy and glower at the pharmacist until he hands over the meds you've requested. Yes, you think, I know all about drug interferences. That's the fucking point you moron. And you happily down three times the recommended dose of cough mixture in front of the bastard just to piss him off.

Consequently your mood is slightly improved and even if the symptoms still _feel_just as severe, there's a nice layer of fog between the part of your mind that would complain about that and your pain receptors. Isobel Stevens, your favourite deaf, dumb and mute intern, gives you a disapproving look as you palm some of the painkillers that are perhaps a little on the strong side, but you glare back and roll your eyes.

When she opens her mouth to speak you cut her off, "Save it. When I did my cardio rotation as an intern a surgeon had a heart attack in the middle of surgery; we knew something was wrong because he paused, just for a second, before proceeding. The codeine isn't going to put me off my game."

She blinks at you for a second and you dump a pile of charts in her arms, rather unceremoniously.

"You're prettier than Karev, but it's not as fun to insult your notes," you tell her, "Unfortunately for me, I can actually read your handwriting."

She trails behind you and mutters something under her breath about 'being taken seriously'.

"Lighten up sunshine," you shrug at her, "I'm told you're off probation which means you can look, touch, speak and breathe. Provided you don't think or speak, I might let you do the other three."

"What?" she looks surprised, "No inappropriate jokes about the touching part?"

"I'm not in the mood," you cough violently and sniff, "I am going to call you sunshine though," you look her up at down, "Suits you. You're irritatingly happy and you were here an hour before me."

"Excuse me for actually enjoying my job," she narrows her eyes a little and you realise that you're actually going to be able to piss her off. Unlike Karev, she might actually react. You like a puppy that bites your shoe when you kick it. This is going to be fun.

"What did I tell you about thinking and speaking?" you wave your hand dismissively and disappear to make more of that disgusting herbal tea some misguided soul left in the staff lounge. It tastes positively disgusting but it helps the sore throat a little.

In the spirit of your newfound good mood, you decide to satisfy your curiosity about why Alex Karev is still bringing you coffee every morning when he could be getting surgery (and sex probably, which are the only two things interns think about in your limited experience) from Addison. You also figure you should at least try and ascertain whether or not she's going to pursue this little drunken adventure of hers, since appropriate cradle-robbing OB/GYN jokes will have to ensue if she is. You figure the only reason you don't really care about the outcome of last night is because nothing lasting can happen between her and Karev. Either the kid will wise up (but you doubt it) or she'll start to worry about her reputation.

Either way, you give it less than a month and hell, she was married for eleven years. A month pales in comparison. Besides, the fact that she's in a relationship with someone else has never meant much to either of you.

Predictably, Karev finds you almost immediately. Interns are fun, you muse, they're like puppets or well-trained dogs. You can't quite understand why Addison has a problem with your mistreatment of them. Obviously she's forgotten the days when _you_were interns and every single attending surgeon sexually harassed her constantly. You might start calling her 'love' or 'sweet cheeks' incessantly just to remind her. They worked you into the ground in that first year out of med school, but you're all better off because of it and you're not going to apologise for taking advantage of the superiority you worked so hard for, liberal education reforms or no.

You bring your mind back to the task at hand and smirk, because the intern is standing in front of you awkwardly, as though he has no idea what he's in for.

"Doctor Sloan," Karev looks left and right, "You wanted to see me?"

"Why do you want to do plastics?" you ask.

He looks at you, "What?"

"Why," you repeat, thinking that Karev is lucky your curiosity still outweighs your impatience, for now, "Do you want to do plastics?"

"I always have," he begins cautiously, "Do you want my honest answer?"

"Do you want to scrub in on a surgery this week?" you blink incredulously, hoping this kid isn't wasting your time. Today you are definitely not in the mood.

"Ok," he shrugs and his jaw sets defiantly; "My father was an abusive drunk. Once he smashed my mother's face in so badly that she needed reconstructive work done. She never would have been the same without it. So there, are you happy now? Is it going to change your low opinion of me, knowing I love my mother?"

"No," you say shortly, "But I'm not going to teach any one who's in it for the money or the kicks. If you want to be a good surgeon you've got to do it for more than just your salary, which is why I wondered. You can't have seen much radical reconstruction work here because no one in Seattle does the real stuff," you pause, "Because if that's all you want Karev – money and the luxury of operating on people who are completely healthy – then no, my low opinion of you stands."

"There are perks," he meets your glare for the first time since he started sucking up to you, holding your gaze and staring back, "But it's a misunderstood field. Whether a procedure is elective or not doesn't change the quality of the work you can do or the impact you have on someone's life."

"Ok," you give him a gruff nod and grab the chart from his hands, looking over it briefly, "You're with Addison today?"

"Yeah but," he makes a gesture behind him with his hands, "I'm free after lunch, if you've got something…"

"No," you cut him off.

"But…"

"No," you hand him the chart and step backwards, "Stay with her. Look after her. Think about it. You choose plastics, you get to learn from me, miserable son of a bitch that I am. You also get coffee, fetch lunch and follow my instructions without questioning them. You choose gynie," you shrug, "You get shiny and pink. But you once you make the decision, you're stuck with it. I'm not going to teach someone who quits as soon as it gets hard. Got it?"

"Yeah," he looks a little taken aback.

"And before you ask why," you fold your arms, "It's because it reflects badly on me. There's not a lot I give a crap about Karev, but I do give a crap about surgery, the reputation of my profession and my work. If you don't, if it's not the most important thing to you, don't bother. And, keep an eye on Addison."

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he fingers the edge of the chart absently.

You're about to say no when he rushes on anyway.

"Do you love her?"

"Rule number one," you narrow your eyes, "No personal questions."

"It's just," he grips the chart and rocks forward in his sneakers, looking nervous but unable to stop the sentence that's slipping out, "Last night… "

"Rule number two," you continue as though he hadn't spoken, "What happens at the bar stays at the bar."

"But," he interjects, "I've gotta know. If we're going to work together, if you love her then I… just have to know."

"Hey," you shrug, "I'm not going to tell you what to do. If you like her then you like her. If you think she's hot then I agree with you. I meant what I said last night; getting involved with her would be stupid. As you probably gathered, she's got her share of issues. But it's your mistake, not mine."

And you spin on your heel and walk away before he can bother you about it any more, because it's not that you don't want to answer the question, it's just that you don't have a satisfactory answer to it anymore. You do love her, in a way. It's just that love doesn't begin to cover it. It's more complicated than that. It's harder to explain and define and you instinctively know that Alex Karev wouldn't get it. You try not to think about it for the remainder of the day, but it won't quite go away, even as Steven's trails you around from consult to consult seeming thoroughly disinterested.

You don't blame her. There are probably more interesting surgeries in fields that interest her going on currently, but at least her boredom keeps her from wanting to make conversation.

You are in no mood to discuss what you're thinking.

Karev asked you if you love her, as though if you did everything would be black and white like one of those old movies she loves so much. Sure you love her, but there's fifteen years of crap to sort through, the persistent voice in the back of your mind that tells you she doesn't love you, the fact that her ex-husband is your ex-best-friend… honestly you think it wouldn't matter if you were in some stupid movie, it'd still play more like Samson and Delilah than Breakfast At Tiffany's.

Besides, you're beginning to think there's something behind that 'bros before hos' thing. It's not that you miss Derek. You're not the sort of person who misses people and Derek hasn't really been your best friend for years. It got a little complicated after he had Addison. There were things you thought that, out of necessity, you couldn't tell him. And then he had a _wife_ to share secrets, hopes, dreams, plans with. You became a little less necessary. You're not bitter about that, because the distance made it easier. It made you feel more justified keeping things from him because hey, he was keeping things from you. Still, the Red Sox versus the Yankees debates aren't as heated with colleagues and you are starting to think that Addison wasn't worth the years of friendship you threw away with Derek. It's not because you don't love Addison. It's not because you don't think she _would_be worth it. You just think that given how that turned out, you all would have been better off if it had never happened.

You miss having someone who slaps you upside the head for being a jerk and it would be nice to have one of those discussions with Derek, the kind you used to have during college when you were collapsed on the floor staring at the ceiling and feeling unusually sincere because of the whiskey. You don't have the slightest clue about how to function in a relationship. There were times in New York with Addison that you needed to ask what the fuck you were supposed to do and Derek's the only person you've ever been able to ask those kind of questions who doesn't mock you or immediately take offence at your obliviousness.

Maybe it's the cold and flu meds, but the morning sort of floats past, meandering at a comfortable pace without dragging. Around midday, you send Stevens in search of food. You tell her she can breathe and eat, provided she does it quickly, and you'll also permit her to think, speak and touch the patient during pre-op. She rolls her eyes and grudgingly hands over your sandwich. Smiling, you take it from her and disappear to the cafeteria to read a paper written by a guy you _loathed_in med school who's now a plastic surgeon in New York. Privately you think he's a bad one, but you're still interested to see what crap a respectable journal has misguidedly published. For your own amusement, you decide it might be worthwhile experimenting with his new techniques while you're out here in Seattle. It's not like there's any serious competition in the field and West Coasters seem to have lower expectations. You could make Karev write the paper and take all the credit for proving this idiot wrong.

You're still thinking about this when a tray lands beside you.

"Hey," Doctor Torres invites herself to your table, "You got a minute?"

You shrug and say nothing. If she wants to ask obvious questions she can figure out the answers for herself.

"Ok," she raises an eyebrow and doesn't look offended exactly, but at the same time she's not pleased by your lack of etiquette, "Look I just… wanted to ask how you were doing. To be polite, or whatever."

You look up at her and try not to smirk with amusement, "Or whatever?"

"Ok then," she stands and shakes her head at you, "I'll never be nice to you again. Have a nice day."

"Hey Callie," you call after her, "Thanks."

She smiles and laughs, looking exasperated, "You're welcome."

"You can sit," you tell her, "If you're not too afraid of contracting a deathly virus."

"She told me," the woman confesses, "About… last night. And what was said. And how you reacted."

"She remembers?" you pick at the sandwich since your throat hurts too much for you to be seriously interested in food, "I'm impressed. And you're on reconnaissance for the enemy?" you look at her, incredulous smile curling up the sides of your mouth, "I would've thought you'd be a little more subtle in your approach."

"Well," Callie shrugs, "I don't usually do subtle."

"That," you smirk, "I noticed."

You expect her to squirm a little or blush ever so slightly but instead she just eyes you idly and looks bored. You find yourself thinking she's got a certain degree of attitude and that makes her not half-bad.

"But you are here because she asked you to talk to me?" you continue, "Since the only difference between a bunch of doctors and a bunch of third graders is the lab coats."

"High school with scalpels," Callie rolls her eyes, "No, she didn't send me. She just related the incident with so little emotion, I wondered about you."

"Is it depressing," you ponder, "If I've reached the point in life where I figure that if I'm still able to get out of bed in the morning I'm doing ok?"

"A little," she sighs, "But sometimes it's a challenge."

"Yeah," you give up on the sandwich and crush the wrapper beneath your fingers, "I'm past caring though. It can't get any worse; she's got to be up to acceptance by now."

"Stages of grief?" Callie looks up.

"Yeah," you shrug, "Anger, denial, alcohol, hangover, acceptance."

"Given how pissed off you've been all week," she taps her fingernails against the table and you glare pointedly until she stops, "You must be in denial."

"I don't do denial," you inform her shortly, "Never have, never will. My cycle's a little different to hers. It's pretty much anger, resentment, outburst, apathy."

"That's screwed up," she laughs a little; "You know that right?"

You shrug, "So I've been told. But if it doesn't kill you you're still alive and obliged to function accordingly."

"Can I ask you a question?" she says suddenly, as thought what you've said has reminded her of something important.

"Oh no," you roll your eyes, "That's the second time today someone's asked me that question and the last time it didn't end well."

"It's just," she twists her hands nervously, and you wonder why the hell everyone in Seattle has a problem getting to the point with you. It's not like you bite. Well. Not physically. "George's father died."

"This is your," you gesture with your hands and look upwards trying to place the name in your memory, "Boyfriend right?"

"Well," she looks ambivalent for a second, "It's complicated."

"When is it simple?" you counter, "The point?"

"I just," she shrugs, "Don't know what to say you know? I mean, were you close to your father?"

"He'd be no different to me dead than he is alive," you no longer feel bad about saying things like that, you gave up on caring about your parents' shitty parenting when you were fifteen.

"Exactly," Callie wraps her arms around her shoulders and hugs herself, "My mother raised me. For as long as I can remember my father … has been gone. So I don't get it, what he's going through."

"Didn't you go through that phase as a teenager?" you ask her, "Where you hated the bastard for leaving and you blamed yourself?"

She raises her eyes skyward and nods, "Oh yeah. That phase involved a lot of terrible angry indie girl rock."

"Not that I have any idea," you admit, wrinkling your nose a little at her taste in music, "But that could be how George is feeling right now. Just a thought. It's the best I've got."

"Thanks," she says thoughtfully as you stand and grab the wad of paper you sat down to read in the first place.

"You can tell her I'm fine," you wink at her, "And that if she's really worried a simple 'hello' will suffice in future."

"I'm not here because," she starts to protest but you hold up a hand and shrug, "This is one of those things women do that I have yet to understand but I know. She used to send me to assess Derek's level of hostility whenever they argued."

"Right," she draws out the vowel and looks disbelieving.

"Like the idiot I am I always did of course," you tell her pointedly.

"You really care about her don't you?" is Torres' answer.

An appropriately timed fit of coughing saves you from thinking up an answer suitable to be relayed second hand to Addison herself and you wave off her concern, realising you're the tiniest bit late for your afternoon surgery.

"You know most people just say good afternoon," she calls after you when you turn and walk away without a word.

You would yell back but you don't think your voice would take it. Sure most people bother with pleasantries. The way you figure, she knew you were going to say it anyway and she was just going to say the same thing back. It's the default position. Why bother physically doing it if instinctively you both know how the scene will play?

Of course sometimes it's amusing to watch a predictable thing happen, so you don't bother apologising to Isobel Stevens or the anaesthesiologist when you scrub in five minutes later.

The intern is an interesting shade of pink and fuming silently, so you can't resist looking up and saying, "So what are we doing again sunshine?"

She glares, "Septoplasty and submucous resection of the turbinates."

"Hmm," you muse, "How thoroughly boring. No cosmetic work?"

"No," she folds her arms, "Some people like their noses as is."

You tilt your head to one side and eye hers critically for a second, "You got hit in the face as a kid, but other than that, your nose is… cute."

"Can we get on with it?" you watch her jaw clench with a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Sure," you say, "On that speaking, breathing, touching thing, come a little closer so you can see. And don't stop breathing on me, not that it wouldn't be fun to do EAR but I'm busy at the moment."

The procedure is essentially a boring one and thoroughly routine. It's her first surgery since probation though and she watches intently the entire time, looking more fascinated than you would have expected. Afterwards, you're trying to avoid breaking the comfortable silence in the scrub room when she gets that 'I'm about to say something you wish I wouldn't' face women always get before they talk about something you rather wouldn't. You decline the opportunity to comment however and brace yourself for whatever's coming.

"Doctor Sloan?" Stevens leans against the sink and shuffles her feet.

Oh bother. Why the fuck won't they just talk?

"Don't ask," you tell her.

"What?" she looks surprised and affronted.

"Do not," you shake your hands and reach for a paper towel, "Under any circumstances, ever, ask me if you can ask me. If you've got something to ask, for the sake of my sanity, just ask it."

"Ok," she nods, "You like direct."

You roll your eyes half-heartedly deciding it doesn't deserve an answer.

"Ok then," she folds her arms across her chest defensively; "Do you think you can be a surgeon and a person?"

You look at her.

"Excuse me," you say tonelessly, "Did I give you the impression I was the touchy feely kind?"

"No," she muses, "But … you seem to spend a lot of time thinking. And you don't judge, well," she gets that unamused 'I know you've been staring at my tits' look women always seem to be giving you, "Not anything important anyway. So I just wondered."

"Yay," you mumble to yourself, "The joys of a teaching hospital."

"Excuse me?" she inquires so sweetly and politely that you know it's fake.

"Ok," you sigh; the woman is annoyingly persistent, "If you promise to do the post-op and not bother me for what little remains of my day, I'll answer your question."

"Deal," her ponytail bobs decisively.

"Of course you can be a surgeon and a person," you offer sarcastically, "You think you evolve into a different species after seven years of residency?"

"No," she huffs, "That is _not_what I meant."

"It'll change you," you tell her, "Sure you can be a surgeon and a person, but it'll make you a different person. Either you become the sort of person that accepts that, or you become the sort of person that enjoys banging their head against the wall."

"So essentially you're saying I have to be a cold-hearted bitch to do my job?"

"No," you counter, "But you have to resign yourself to the fact that life isn't fair. Suck it up. Right, teaching session over. Go pester your resident. That's what they're there for."

She looks at you thoughtfully, "Do you care about anything? Or are you this … indifferent about everything in your life?"

"Right now I care about you asking pesky questions," you declare shortly, turning to leave.

"You just moved across the country," she follows you into the corridor and her sneakers scuff against the linoleum as she runs to catch up, "On a whim and I… it's just hard to reconcile that with this blasé attitude of yours."

"Show and tell is over," you say, deciding the important business of the day is done and you have no obligation to continue this conversation, "And so is question time."

"Why'd you do it?" she persists.

"Because," you say flatly, "Secretly, I'm a romantic."

She rolls her eyes, "That's all I get? Sarcasm?"

"Yes," you smile, "That's it."

"Honestly?" she follows you into the elevator much to your chagrin and you wonder if you went a little easy on the inappropriate innuendos. She likes you way too much for your liking.

"I moved to Seattle because," you pause at this point, considering your answer, "Well, of the three of us, Addison, Derek and I… I'm the most and the least stubborn."

The answer isn't really all that cryptic but she looks confused just the same.

Thankfully it shuts her up and she exits on the next floor, leaving you alone. You lean back against the wall of the elevator and close your eyes. Too many damn questions. You liked her better when she didn't look, touch, speak or breathe.

You decide to make the short journey across the street and make Joe call you a cab. It seems that much easier than doing it yourself. Plus after today, you could use a drink. You read the label on the cough syrup just to see what they were telling people these days, and given the ambiguous wording you figure that since you won't be 'operating any heavy machinery' it's safe to consume alcohol. Grammatical mistakes like that could lead to a law suit but you don't think you'll bother writing to the pharmaceutical company. It'll be so much more gratifying to see it crammed into a little column on page six. After all, Schadenfreude's a bitch.

You're nursing a half-empty glass when Karev sits next to you, "I've thought about it."

"Ok," you shrug, "And?"

"Dude are you kidding?" he raises the beer to his lips, "Despite thinking that your opinion of gynie is completely unfair, I can't pass up an opportunity like that."

"Right," you say, "And just to make things clear, I still don't like you."

"Good," he stands, "Because I still think you're a miserable son of a bitch."

"For that you earn an extra stay on the maternity floor," you tell him.

"You're a jerk," he sounds pissed off.

"No, I'm an ass," you correct, "Point is, stay with Addison for the rest of the week. Then, prove to me that you're worth it and I'll let you scrub in on the most boring procedure I can find on Monday."

"She um, seemed ok today," he offers, as though you asked.

"Yeah," you shrug, "She usually does."

"I just thought," he swallows and shakes his head, "Well you know, I thought you'd be interested."

You pretend to have no idea what he's getting at and he looks confused. All part of the plan of course; you don't want her to figure out that he's reporting to you, and you figure he's going to keep doing it regardless of how you respond. It's an arrangement that works for everybody.

"Monday," you tell him, "And remember rule number two."

He nods mutely and you leave without ceremony.

The walk back to the hotel is longer than you would normally attempt. It's five blocks, and it's still raining, but you want the time to clear your head of the persistent questions. You don't like feeling ambivalent. You've always been all-or-nothing about things in principle and a little less dedicated in practise. Still, you like knowing your own mind so you spend the time thinking, about Addison and Derek and how you all ended up at this point. More importantly, you start considering how you can move past this point because you're pretty sure the past year has been thoroughly depressing for all three of you in one way or another. It doesn't seem fair that a few careless mistakes should make you all miserable for the rest of your lives.

Of course Derek won't be miserable, you realise, because he's probably still in denial. His cycle of grief is different to Addison's and different to yours: anger, flight, denial and memory suppression. In the entire time you've known him, he has yet to come to terms with most things in life.

His father died when you were both nine-years-old and you think that he still lives under the illusion that one day, he'll wake up and realise it was all a bad nightmare.

These thoughts accompany you through the wet streets and you're not really feeling any better when you finally make it back to the hotel.

You're feeling light-headed when you pass her room though you only had that one scotch at Joe's. Your throat aches and you're incredibly tired. Still, you pause a little in the corridor, trying to read the room numbers and realising every thing is a little blurry.

You lean against her door for a while before you knock.

She answers immediately and steps backwards abruptly when she sees you standing in front of her.

"Mark," she says, surprised, "Um, hi."

You swallow, and it takes a great deal of effort but you drag yourself across the floor and sink into the chair by the window, "Addison."

"Are you ok?" she sounds concerned, "You look sicker than yesterday."

"Oh yeah," you cough a little and raise your hand to your mouth, "Just a cold."

She frowns and eyes you suspiciously but sinks down on the bed and wraps her arms around herself, "Ok."

"Addison," you say again, watching her perched on the covers and chewing her lip thoughtfully.

"Have you been drinking?" her brow furrows again.

"No," you rest your head against the table in front of you, "No I'm sorry, I just… don't feel so good. Give me a minute, I have something to say."

She stands and puts a hand on your shoulder, "Hey, let me have a look at you."

You allow her to push you upright but shake you head, "Hang on. Let me talk first. Talk. First. I have to."

"Ok," she sits on the table in front of you and lets you rest your head in her lap. She rests her hand on your cheek and pats the side of your face, "It's ok, say whatever you want. I'm listening I promise."

And you realise that you must have sounded a little more frantic than you intended but it's all a bit much. You feel dizzy.

"Addison I don't know the first thing about being a father," you admit with closed eyes, "Or about relationships. I thought that if it was you it would be different, but it wasn't and I don't know how to be that guy but I want," you squeeze your eyes closed a little tighter at the stab of pain in your head, "I want, you know I can't even remember what I was going to say, but I want you. I want it to be different with you."

With that you decide it's all too much, and groan a little as she presses her palm to your forehead. Vaguely you can hear her commenting on your various symptoms and ordinarily you would be making sarcastic remarks but sleeping seems so much more important right now.

"Mark?" she prods your shoulder, "Mark?"

You exhale in response. It's too hard to speak, too hard to move, maybe if she'll just let you rest, just for a minute.

You can't recall her whipping out the Blackberry and you can't honestly say you can see her clearly, but she's definitely on the phone because you can hear the conversation in some remote part of your mind that isn't throbbing painfully.

"Derek?" she sounds so worried, you reflect, and you try to reach out for her hand, to tell her it's ok but it's too much effort, "Derek Mark's really sick. No, you don't… I know I'm a doctor, of course I can but… Derek I'm scared. It's… it's worse than that time in Mexico."

Oh boy, that time in Mexico really did suck.

It's the last thing you remember thinking.


	3. Neverland

**Chapter Three: Neverland.**

You are 9-years-old and you can't cry, because there are people in the room and you haven't been able to cry around other people since you started grade school. You're on the phone to your mother from Derek's house, begging her to let you stay the night even though you have school tomorrow. You've done it before, you argue, and you don't see how it matters. She won't even notice you're not there.

Finally you resort to cruelty to get your way.

"Some kids don't even _have_ mothers," you tell her, "I'm not coming home and you can't make me."

Derek's mother looks up at you with a cross stare and you swallow nervously, "Um, listen, Julia, can I just stay?"

Julia, your mother, just hangs up on you. So you figure that's a yes.

You smile sweetly at Mrs Shepherd and hope to God she doesn't lecture you. It's not that you don't like her or respect her; it's just that she doesn't really understand the arrangement you and Julia have. You don't want to go home to a dark and empty house and listen to your mother and her new husband talking in hushed tones in the huge living room with the shiny funny-smelling furniture. You're never allowed in there and you'll just spend the entire time in your room, after you've done your homework the only thing to do will be watch TV or read and you need a new book.

She sighs at you, "Mark, don't talk to your mom like that."

You feel like telling her your mother is a stupid bitch, but neither you nor Derek are game to use that word in front of her since the last time you did she chased you into the yard brandishing a wooden spoon and refused to give you dinner.

You blink at her, "Julia's not my mom. She's my mother."

"Semantics," Derek's mother clucks at you.

"I didn't want to go home," you sigh, "It's boring. And Julia's always off talking to Malcolm now."

"That doesn't matter," she says sternly, "You still have to be polite, even when you don't want to."

"Ok," you shrug, "I'm sorry. I'll apologise when I see her I promise."

"Good," she looks up at you over her glasses and smiles, "Mark, do you miss your father?"

You roll your eyes, "No. Not really. He's in Baltimore. I get to visit him at Christmas."

"You know it's ok to miss him right?"

"Julia doesn't," you declare dismissively, "She's got Malcolm."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't love you," Mrs Shepherd pushes the newspaper aside and pats the chair beside her, "And that doesn't mean you're not allowed to miss your dad."

"Captain Hook was always working anyway," you wrinkle your nose and sit beside her because you know from experience she'll pester you until you agree to talk, "It's not really that much different now that he's gone," you pause, "Well, except that Malcolm doesn't buy me stuff when he forgets about things."

"Mark don't call your father that," she pats your head and you lean against her shoulder because she smells nice.

"Why not?" you sniff, "I finished Peter Pan by the way. I need a new book."

"Already?" she looks down at you with wide eyes, "I only gave that to you on Tuesday."

"So?" you blink at her, "I didn't come over on Tuesday afternoon. Julia made me get the bus home. I had nothing else to do."

"You've almost finished the entire shelf," she says, pushing the chair back and walking over to the huge mahogany bookshelf in the hall, "What can I give you next?"

"Jules Verne," you say, "Please? I can read it. Please?"

"I am not giving you 20 000 Leagues Under The Sea," she shakes her head as you try and reach the hardcover volume resting on a shelf just beyond your reach, "Pick something else."

"William Golding?" you try, hopefully.

"Nice try," she musses your hair and you squeal in protest, twisting out of her grasp and pouting at her, "Lord of the Flies is the _last_ thing you need to read."

You don't have the heart to tell her you borrowed One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest from the library across the road from your first bus stop, and while you didn't understand exactly what happened you've had nightmares about going mad and slitting your own throat ever since.

"Fine," you huff, "Swiss Family Robinson?"

"Johann David Wyss," she smiles at you, "Nice choice."

You smirk at her, "I have good taste. I started reading it at school and it's really long but interesting. Can I have Five Children and It as well? Please? Because I have to spend the whole weekend with Julia and Malcolm so I need something to take with me. I'll bring them back I promise."

Derek peers through to doorway, "Mom are you going to give Mark back any time soon? I'm bored."

"Hang on," she hangs you the books and you smile triumphantly in Derek's direction.

He rolls his eyes at you, "How do you read so fast?"

You clutch the pile of literature to your chest and shrug, "It's a secret."

Derek frowns at you, "Tell me."

"No," you stick your tongue out at him.

"Fine then," he sticks his tongue out back.

"Careful," his mother leans against the bookshelf and eyes you both fondly.

You both roll your eyes in unison and finish the sentence in a tone that belies the underlying sentiment of 'blah blah blah', "Or the wind will change."

"Oh shoo the pair of you," she waves her arms in dismissal; "You're both incorrigible."

You both dart into the hallway before she chases you and giggle to each other. A quick trip to Derek's room to deposit the new loans from the Library Shepherd and he puts his fingers to his lips and says, "Come here, I want to show you something."

You laugh at little and press your hand to your mouth, "Ok, I'll be quiet I promise."

"You have to be," he assures you with wide eyes, "Or you'll ruin it."

"Ok," you repeat impatiently, "Show me already."

"Did you bring your pencil case home?" he asks suddenly, wandering over to the wooden desk in his room and rummaging around until he brandishes a pair of scissors, "Because you might need some of these."

Intrigued, you rustle around in your school bag until you find a similar pair and follows his ninja-style moves back into the hallway. Together you sneak down to the pink door at the end, with 'Nancy' and 'Kathleen' spelt in girlie wooden letters.

"Look," he hisses, pointing to the floor.

There, splayed against the wood is the hair of their dolls, laid out in shiny plastic glory. You almost snicker with glee when you realise what he has planned. He smirks at you and raises the scissors ominously, letting them slide together with a soft 'snip snip'.

In a moment of wordless communication you both position yourselves at either side of the door and on his whispered count of three begin to give his sisters' dolls a much needed haircut.

Several seconds later and you both sweep the piles of hair off the floor, clutching them in triumphant fists and sneak back down the corridor to hide from the girls in the living room, peering into the hall every now and then, wondering when exactly they'll notice.

You don't have to wait long. On Derek's lead you dump the evidence of your crime beneath the sofa and rush back to the corridor as the first squeal of alarm reaches your ears. Moments later the door is wrenched open and closed again with a resounding slam. Derek howls with laughter and you join him, rolling around on the living room carpet while Kathleen clutches her beloved doll to her chest, bawling. Nancy comes after you then, raising her ruined Barbie in the air and letting a harsh warlike cry fill the air.

Both you and Derek abruptly stop laughing and look up in alarm as his little sister launches herself at him and begins thrashing him repeatedly with the doll.

"God Nancy," he tries to push her off, "Mom! She's hitting me. Nancy, stop it."

"Hey Nancypants," you sing from across the room, knowing it will distract her, "You hit like a girl."

She stops mid-strike to glower at you, "What did you say you big loser?"

"I sa-aid," you tease, "That you hit like a girl."

The Barbie, sporting a hairstyle now reminiscent of a mullet, comes flying across the room and nearly hits you in the shoulder. You duck just in time and instead it makes contact with the curtains and harmless falls to the floor.

"See?" you tell her, "You _suck_."

Simpering, she charges at you headlong so you step sideways and smirk as she crashes into the wall.

"Quick Derek," you yell, "Run."

And then you're both on your feet, tearing out the front door and running around the front yard, scrambling up the landscaped side garden in order to leap over the fence and sprint down into the backyard up into the treehouse before the girls make it out through the back of the house.

You let him go first up the ladder, glancing behind you the entire time and you both clamber in and shut the trapdoor in the floor with a resounding thud, teaming up to drag a box full of bricks across the entrance and collapsing on the wooden floor with a sigh of collective relief.

He looks at you and you both burst into fits of giggles again.

"High five," he declares solemnly.

You eye his palm and nod decisively, "Definitely. High five."

And you slap palms as the screen door crashes.

"Derek," his mother yells, a crying Kathleen still clinging to her knees, "Mark."

"Uh oh," he observes and together you slowly rise, crouching beneath the window, until your eyes are just visible above the sill to take in the scene before you.

"You boys get down here now!" she demands, "Or you can both sleep up there."

You exchange glances.

"We could sleep here," Derek points out, since you both long ago figured it might be necessary in event of a war or alien invasion to take refuge in the treehouse and stocked it accordingly.

You shiver a little and rub at your arms. The leaves poking through the window are brilliant shades of red and orange and the Autumn evenings are getting colder and colder.

"We might freeze to death," you say, melodramatically.

Derek scoffs, "It'll be like camping, only there won't be any bears."

"There weren't bears the last time we went camping," you roll your eyes, "You're just a big scaredy cat."

"Am not," he teases, "_You're_ the one who wants to sleep inside."

"You know your mom won't speak to us if we don't go in and pretend we're sorry," you say, "And she's making macaroni cheese Derek. Come on. It's our favourite."

He looks thoughtful at that, "Well I suppose…. No broccoli?"

"I made her promise," you smile triumphantly, "Just bacon and extra extra cheesy sauce."

"Derek!" his mother yells again, "Mark!"

Contritely, you both slink down the ladder and shuffle across the yard. In unison (it's all part of the plan) you look up at her with wide eyes, hands clasped behind your backs, and rock from side to side, "Yes?"

"Did you boys cut the hair of Nancy and Kathleen's dolls?" she raises an unamused eyebrow at you both and puts her hands on her hips, knowing full well that you're both guilty as sin.

"No," you say immediately.

Derek ruins it though, by laughing a little as he echoes your words, "No."

"Don't you lie to me misters," she reaches out and grabs you both by the collar, "Time out, now. And apologise to the girls. Now."

Nancy and Kathleen stick their tongues out at you from behind their mother's back and you both grudgingly mumble, "Sorry for ruining your dolls."

As you sit in your corner of the kitchen, facing the wall, you look sideways at Derek and catch him looking at you. You both snicker quietly. His mother glares at you both and returns to cooking dinner. You both edge closer together. She looks up at you both innocently resume eyeing the wall. She looks away and you edge closer again, still giggling at each other.

Her mouth is open, ready to deliver a biting warning when the phone rings.

You share a high five at that and are about to race out of the room to terrorise his sisters some more when the receiver clatters to the floor.

In alarm, you stare at his mother who looks stunned.

"Derek," she says in a tone of voice you've never heard her use before, "Where are the girls?"

"Watching TV?" he offers.

"Good," she nods to herself, "Ok, I'm going to run to the neighbours. You and Mark watch the girls. Please?"

She stares at you both so intently that you push any thoughts of mischief to the back of your mind and nod wordlessly.

"That was weird," you remark.

"I know," Derek mutters, "We got out of time out though."

"I know," you shrug, "Let's go watch TV."

You're all sitting in the living room watching reruns of the original Charlie's Angels when Mrs Shepherd returns with Derek's neighbours in tow.

"Guys," she leans against the doorframe, "Patty and Sam are going to watch you for a while ok? Your dad was… in an accident and I…" she raises her hand to her mouth, "I have to go to the hospital."

"I want to come too," Derek stands up and announces.

"You guys have to stay here," she says wearily, "There's not enough room in the car."

"Well Mark and I will go," he looks around at his sisters and they all nod slightly, "Because we're the best at telling stories," he continues, addressing the small conference in hushed whispers. "And we can tell you what happened."

"Ok," Nancy nods, "Good plan."

"I vote yes," Kathleen announces.

"Yeth," Amelia coos, probably because both her big sisters said it.

"Make sure you remember everything Derek," Nancy blinks at her older brother, "And Mark, you have to tell. You're better at stories."

"Right then," Derek announces, "Mark and I are coming mom."

His mother just stands there with her car keys in her hand unsure of how to react. You tug at her skirt, "Come on Mrs Shepherd. Let's go."

She looks down at you both, too tired to argue and gives Patty and Sam some directions. They shoot her sympathetic glances. No one else notices, but you think something must be wrong if the adults are looking at each other like that.

You and Derek sit in the backseat and kick at each other's feet in silence.

"I hate hospitals," you tell him, as you walk through the glass doors behind his mother who unusually hasn't decided to drag you around by the hands as though you were four-years-old, "They remind me of when my dad had dying patients."

"Do you think my dad is gonna die?" he looks at you in alarm.

"I don't know Derek," you answer honestly.

His mother hasn't heard you; she is still busy arguing with the nurses at reception. The next half hour is a whirl of elevators, doctors and antiseptic. Finally, you are sitting on an orange plastic chair in a waiting room, swinging your legs over the outside of the chair, watching a doctor in a white coat tell Derek's mother something that's making her cry.

"What's happening?" he asks you, clutching at your shoulder.

"I don't know," you try and lip read, "I can't see what they're saying."

A younger looking doctor sees you both trying to peer through the clear glass and sits crouches in front of you, "Is that your mom?"

"Yeah," Derek mumbles, "Mine. I'm Derek Shepherd. This is Mark, my best friend."

"What's that?" you ask curiously, reaching out to grab the funny looking thing hanging from his neck.

"This is a stethoscope Mark," he smiles at you, "Look, you can listen to people's heart with it," he puts it in your ears and raises it to your chest. A loud rustling noise fills your ears, followed by a faint rhythmic thud.

"Is that my heart?" your eyes widen.

"Yeah," he pulls it out of your ears and drapes it around is neck once more, "Cool huh?"

"Are you a doctor?" Derek questions.

"Yeah," the guy smiles, "Well, I'm going to be a surgeon, but yes, I'm a doctor."

"Do you know what's wrong with my dad?" he blinks and looks nervous so you put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

"Your dad," the doctor sighs, "Had a pretty bad car accident. And his entire face was sort of smashed up so my boss, the one talking to your mother, was going to fix it."

"Wow," you stare curiously, "How'd you do that?"

"Plastic surgery is pretty amazing these days," the doctor shrugs and puts his hands on Derek's knees, "And a neurosurgeon was trying to fix his brain. A neurosurgeon is a brain surgeon," he adds by way of explanation, "Because that was hurt in the accident too."

"Why are you talking in past tense?" you observe suspiciously and your grip on Derek's shoulder tightens.

"Because," the doctor sighs, "We tried very hard, but we couldn't fix your father Derek."

"Is he dead?" Derek asks emotionlessly.

"I'm sorry," the doctor says, "Really, I wish there was…"

"No it's ok," he cuts him off and stands up, "Come on," he says to you, "We have to go and make sure mom's ok."

"Ok," you agree.

You both file into the room where his mother has collapsed in a chair, her head leaning in her hands.

"Is everything done here?" you ask the older doctor as Derek tugs at his mother's sleeve, forcing her to look up.

"Um," the older doctor looks down at you, confused, "I…"

"Look you big dummy," you stomp your foot a little, impatient, "Can we go home? Has Derek's mom done all the grown up stuff?"

Affronted the older doctor nods, "Yes, she has."

You look up at see a body-shaped lump on a hospital bed, draped in a sheet. The sight makes you feel a little sick.

"Ok," you sniff and spin around to face Derek and his mother.

"We can go?" he asks you and you nod.

"Come on mom," he coaxes her gently, "Let's go home and you can call Grandma Shepherd to come help."

You help him tug at her other hand, and wordlessly, you both reach the silent agreement that whatever happens in the next few hours, you have to help his mother and his sisters before you talk about it.

Later, after Derek's neighbours have offered to drive you home and you have flatly refused, after you have related the news to his sisters and after his mother has explained the concept of death to the youngest, everyone is sent to bed. Derek disappears to his room and slams the door.

You bang on it with your fist, "Derek."

"Go away," he says from inside and it sounds like he's crying.

"No," you push against the door.

He leans back against you so you just shove it harder. Finally he gives in and runs over to the bed, pulling the covers over his head when you push past into the room.

"I just want to be alone right now," he mumbles.

"I'm not going," you huff stubbornly, sitting on the mattress his mother pulled out from under the bed before the hospital called and folding your arms around your knees, "And you can't make me."

He sniffles quietly to himself and you see his silhouette rearrange itself in the dark. He sits up and hugs his pillow to his chest, facing the wall, refusing to look at you and cries to himself.

If you were a hero in one of those books you love, you'd know what to say now. Derek always knows what to say, you reflect, at the hospital and afterwards, he just knew exactly what to do and say. You followed his lead, but you didn't really know what to do. And now you have no idea how to make him feel better. So you stand and slide up onto his bed, plucking his prized teddy bear off the floor and handing it to him wordlessly. Ordinarily you tease him about his attachment to the stuffed animal, since you were the never the kind of kid to be unable to sleep without his teddy, but tonight you don't feel like teasing.

You just feel overwhelmed, exhausted and a little empty. You don't really understand how Derek's father can just be gone, just like that and forever too. Forever seems like such a long time to you.

So you hold out the toy between you and nudge at his side until he looks up, the light from the street lamp catches the tears in his eyes and you hug your knees a little tighter to stop the hurt inside your chest. He takes the bear from you wordlessly and buries his face into it, still sobbing quietly.

You shuffle around on the end of his bed and look out the window, up at the stars wondering if they die too. It scares you, to think that one night you might look up and all the stars would be dead and all the people would be dead and there would just be darkness.

Derek is quiet for a while but you still don't speak. You're desperately trying to think of something to say, but a few hours ago seems like a year or five years to you now and it's like you're talking to a stranger.

Finally he turns and stares down at you.

"Mark?" he says quietly.

"Yes Derek?" you answer.

"What's it like," he questions, "Not having a father?"

You reach out for his forgotten pillow and curl your body around it, "My father didn't die Derek, he just moved away."

"Yeah I know," he sniffs and you watch him wipe at his nose with the neck of his T-shirt, "But… it's sort of like that. I know I'm never going to see my dad again, but it'll just be like he's gone somewhere else right? And you never see your dad anyway."

"Your dad was different to my dad," you sigh, "I don't really miss him. He wasn't really there even before he went away. But your dad used to do stuff with us, you know, how he used to play baseball with us? And," you smile a little, "Always let us try his beer when your mom wasn't looking?"

"Yeah," he curls up in a tighter ball.

"I miss your dad Derek."

"I miss him too."

"I wish you'd stop crying," you say timidly, crawling a little closer.

"I wish I would too," he sniffs, "My throat hurts."

"Do you want a glass of water?" you wriggle off the bed and slide onto the floor.

"Maybe," he sniffs again, "In a minute. I'll come with you. I don't want you to leave me alone."

"Ok," you sit back down beside the lump in the bed and pat at his shoulder awkwardly, "I wish it wouldn't hurt Derek. If I could go back in time I'd bring him back."

"I know," he rolls around to face you and grins a little, "If I had magic powers, that's what I'd do."

"If I had three wishes," you say, "That would be my first one."

"Me too," he wipes at his eyes.

You sigh and the silence returns while he struggles to suppress another fit of sobs.

"Mark?"

"Yes Derek?"

"What do you think happens when people die?"

"I don't know," you confess, "Your mother said they go to heaven. I think they go to Neverland though," you recount the passage from memory because you read it over and over, "Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose."

"Really?" he looks up at the ceiling. You follow his eyes and together you both stare at the dim light from glow-in-the-dark stars and rocket ships his dad stuck up when he was afraid of the dark. "Do you think my dad will get caught by Captain Hook?"

"No," you shake your head, "Of course not. Your dad's too clever for that."

"Mark?"

"Yes Derek?"

"Are you scared of dying?"

You nod a little, "Yeah."

"Me too," he admits, "I think I'm going to be a doctor, so I can stop people dying."

"No way," you sniff, "_I'm_ going to be a doctor. So I can have on of those stethsoscope things. And listen to people's hearts."

"We can both be doctors," Derek concedes, "Maybe if we were both doctors we would have been able to save my dad."

"Of course we would," you tell him, "We'd be able to do anything."

"I hate being a kid," he sighs, "You can't save people, you can't do anything."

"I know," you echo, "Does your throat still hurt? Do you want to go get water?"

"Yeah," he sits up and pauses for a minute, meeting your eyes, "Mark?"

"Yes Derek?"

"Thanks," he says, hugging you, "For staying with me even when I told you to go home."

You hug him back tightly, "I told you I wasn't going because I'm not."

"You're my best friend you know?"

"Yeah, you're mine," you murmur.

And you both sit up and crawl out of his bed, pushing open the door and creeping down the hall to the kitchen. The lights are off but you push a chair across to the counter and climb up onto the bench so you can reach the glasses. You push one across to the sink and fill it below crawling back over to Derek.

"Here," you give it to him and while he drinks, you cross your legs and sit on his kitchen counter.

"What's that noise?" you observe suddenly.

There is a faint sniffing noise coming from the hallway behind the kitchen. You both strain to hear more, until finally Derek pushes the glass up onto the counter and you slide down to the floor.

Standing outside his parents' bedroom you hear crying.

"Is that your mother?" you whisper.

He nods, "I think so."

You reach up and push the door open.

She's still sobbing uncontrollably so you grab at Derek's arm and pull him into the room, since he is standing, looking into the darkness with a morose expression on his face.

"Come on," you say, "Let's just… sit with her."

So you both crawl into bed, filling the empty space beside his mother. She looks up when the mattress moves and sniffs abruptly, sitting up, "What're you boys doing here?"

"We heard you crying," Derek tells her, burrowing into her chest.

She reaches up and strokes his hair softly, "I'm sorry baby, I just miss your daddy. He's not even gone yet and I miss him."

You shuffle nervously, wondering if you should just go but then Mrs Shepherd looks up at you and reaches out for the sleeve of your pyjamas, "Come here, both of you."

So you curl up beside her and look at Derek over her stomach, listening as her breathing settles and she stops crying.

"Mark said dad went to Neverland," Derek whispers quietly.

She gasps and reaches up to wipe her eyes, overtaken by a fresh bout of crying.

"I'm sorry," you apologise, "I didn't mean…"

"Oh no," she sniffles and smiles through the tears, "Oh no it's not you sweetie, it's just… I hope he's safe there."

"Don't cry," you tell her.

"It'll be ok mom," Derek finishes your sentence and reaches out to grasp your hand across her body.

Your fingers twist around his and rest them against his mother's stomach, both of you clutching at each other's palms tightly as you snuggle beneath the covers. His mother hugs you both closer and falls asleep. You think he must be sleeping too when he stirs slightly and calls your name.

"Mark?"

"Yes Derek?"

"It is going to be ok isn't it?"

"Yeah," you say, more confidently than you feel, "Yeah of course it is."


	4. Some Things In Life May Change

**Chapter Four: Some Things In Life May Change, Some Things Stay The Same.**

"You son of a bitch."

You yawn a little and rub at your eyes, sitting up in bed, orientating yourself. You are in your hotel room, it must be late afternoon because the sun is peaking through the blinds and your childhood best friend is idly regarding you from across the room. He is sitting backwards on a chair, his arms folded over the back, looking at you with blue eyes that are almost sighing at you.

"God Derek," you croak, "A little sympathy would be nice."

"Hey I hauled ass in the middle of the night because Addison rang me practically screaming," he sighs, rubbing at the bridge of his nose, "I thought you were dead."

"Don't worry," you let your head fall against the wall and groan, "I wish I was. What the hell happened?"

"You passed out in her room," he informs you, "And I had to drag your sorry ass in here and put you to bed while she performed a classic Addison flip out and woke up the entire floor."

"Oh God," you look sideways trying to recall the incident, "I have absolutely no recollection of that. Did I say anything stupid?"

"Probably," he teases, "Anyway, she made me stay to ensure you didn't die overnight even though I assured her it was just a cold."

"Just a cold?" you sniff and fall backwards against the pillows, "I don't think I can move. This is just karma for all those people we sent home from the ER during our internship."

He shakes his head at you, "And you always told me it was 'Eastern superstition.' Between you and me, you've done worse things to get bad karma than refuse to write a sick person a medical certificate."

"This is true," you sigh, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that."

"About what?"

"Getting bad karma by sleeping with your wife."

"Ex-wife," he corrects.

"She was your wife then," you point out.

He swallows tentatively, "Yeah. She was."

"Probably," you break into a fit of coughing, "The shittiest thing I've ever done."

"Probably?" he raises an eyebrow at you.

"You're not mad," you observe, unintentionally avoiding the question but thinking it's lucky you don't have to explain that you once kissed Kathleen while you were dating Nancy in high-school because you've both been (over)protective of his sisters since you were old enough to act tough. You don't think he'd appreciate it.

"Anger is sort of like a fire," he always loved the metaphors, "If you keep feeding it and it doesn't rain, it burns. Otherwise," he reflects, "You wake up one day and you realise you're not angry anymore."

You figure it's best not to push it, so you don't say anything.

"And man you look like crap," he shakes his head at you, "Worse than Mexico."

"That was bad," you groan.

"I never told Addison the truth," he grins at you and you roll your eyes.

"You think she didn't figure out that the two bottles of tequila that led to saliva swapping with the disease ridden locals had more to do with the food-poisoning than the questionably prepared food?" you ask incredulously, "There's one thing she's not Derek; that's stupid."

"I don't know," he leans back against the desk, hands clasped on the back of the chair, "There's this whole thing with you. That's pretty stupid."

"Nice to know we've got to the point where you can use the whole ordeal to take cheap shots at me," you cough again and wipe at your eyes, reaching for the glass of water someone has placed on the nightstand.

"I don't know how I feel about anything anymore," he admits suddenly, palming his forehead and running his fingers through his hair, "It was easy for a while. I hated you, I hated Addison and I fell in love with Meredith. When Addison showed up, I realised I didn't hate her. It would have been easier if I did, more surgical," he sighs, "But I didn't. I was still angry at her and I was still angry at you; I was still convinced that I hated you but now," he pauses, and taps the back of the chair in contemplation, "I don't hate you. I don't understand what you did, I don't want you to explain and I'm still not sure how I feel about it."

"Ok," you shrug, "In all honesty I'm not really sure what I was thinking and what I am thinking at the moment. It's not just the horrible illness. It's just… things never turn out the way you expect. And when things happen sometimes all you can do is react you know? Your feelings, your actions, they're all reactions and they're almost predetermined. In retrospect I wonder about that, and whether I did things for different reasons than I thought at the time."

"Enough time has passed to make us question it," he muses, "You know, at the time I was so certain I was never going to be able to forgive either of you. At the time, I was so sure of myself, the decision to move to Seattle, meeting Meredith, all of it. I knew what I wanted then. Why does that always change with time? The more I think about what I want, the less sure I am."

"Half the time I don't even want to let myself want things," you sigh, "It's difficult and it's painful and half the time circumstances mean I can't have what I want anyway."

"You're a cynic," he teases, and it's not fond, it's not friendly but it's painfully familiar. It's something he has always accused you of for years.

"Maybe so," you raise a hand in ambivalence, "But I'm starting to rethink my philosophy. Somehow, even though I expect to be disappointed, I still _am_ disappointed. The expectation doesn't change the actuality. Why is that?"

"You can prepare yourself for something," he begins thoughtfully, "You can know it's certain, you can tell yourself over and over it's what's going to happen and yet, somehow when it does it still manages to surprise you."

"I've always associated surprises with traumatic events," your lips curl upward in a wry smile, "That's cynical."

"Yeah," he sighs, "But the biggest surprises always seem to be the worst ones; the ones I remember the most vividly were always… bad."

You know him. You know that there are only two events he could possibly be referring to: his father dying or the affair with Addison. It seems ridiculous to you that you've barely spoken in 12 months, that yesterday he thought he hated you and yet you still know things about him that no one else does probably. You can still tell what he's thinking and he can probably still predict what you're going to say next. It's comfortable. It's years of knowledge stored in the back of your mind and no matter how hard either of you try, you don't think you'll ever forget even half of it.

So you let the silence settle over the room and rest your head against the headboard, giving your aching throat some time to recover before you speak. He is lost in thought. His head is tilted left and he's resting his face on his hand, elbow propped against the back of the chair and brow furrowed in concentration. You don't know what he's thinking about, but it's probably a memory rather than analytical process because he chews his lip when he's working on a problem.

Finally you clench your fist against the covers and inhale slowly.

"Derek?"

"Yes Mark?"

"Do you remember the day your dad died?"

He swallows and looks at you, "Yeah. Of course I do."

"That was the world's shittiest surprise," you observe.

He laughs, "Yeah it was."

"That was the day we decided to become surgeons wasn't it?" you sigh.

"Yeah," he mutters softly, "You wanted a stethoscope," he laughs outright then, "Isn't that ridiculous? You based your entire future on the fact that you wanted a stethoscope. I miss that wide-eyed childish innocence. I miss that inability to see the flaws in yourself and in your plans."

"I always had that ability," you confess quietly, "I always hated myself for not knowing what to say or do when it happened. I never know what to say; it's nearly thirty years and I still have no idea what to say or do when stuff like that happens."

He laughs at you, "Seriously?"

You look at him, confused, "Yeah. Why?"

"I always," he shrugs, "I always admired that about you, you know? Sometimes you didn't say anything, but when you did it was always worth saying. I still find myself spewing clichés whenever something goes wrong in life, saying it all happens for a reason and that it'll get better with time, that it'll be ok, all that crap. You never bothered with the crap. Whatever you said, you meant it. You've always been honest, tactless even, but … you always said what you wanted to say. I never had the guts."

"I've said the wrong thing more times than I've said the right thing," you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to shake out the headache as though it's a cramp.

"But you've never lied," he counters, wrapping his fist around the top of the chair and clenching tightly, looking disappointed in himself, "I've… so many times after dad died, I'd tell Nance or Em or Kathleen it was going to be ok, that it would work out. But I didn't really believe it."

"We were nine-years-old," you roll your eyes at him, "Don't beat yourself up over it."

"Yeah it's pretty stupid I guess," he lets his head fall forward and stares at his lap. He's thinking again, so you let the silence stretch out for a few seconds before you speak again.

"You know what I always admired about you?" you ask suddenly and he looks up, probably not surprised that you admire him but definitely shocked you'd be willing to admit it. You continue, "You always knew what to do. When things happened to me, as a kid and even now, I just… I never knew what I was meant to do. I never knew how I was meant to react and so often I just didn't. When my father left, when Julia married the first time, the second time, the third time… it was never real to me. It just happened and I had no idea what to do. But when your dad died, you just… knew, you took charge of the situation, you did things. I wanted to," you shrug, "You know, I wanted to make it easier for you, but I never knew how."

He shakes his head, "I never knew what I was meant to do Mark, I just made it up as I went along. Someone had to do something, someone had to make sure mom got out of bed in the morning, someone had to look after the girls; someone had to do it."

"That's the difference between us," you say, "That's what I mean. Throughout our entire lives I've always been the one who thought about things, who sat there and contemplated, figured out how everything would play if I did something and yet, never did anything. And you were the one who didn't bother considering the consequences, you just acted, intuitively. You just _knew_ what to do, what to say. I never did, not when it mattered, not when I actually cared."

"Yeah," he swallows and meets your eyes, "You did all right most of the time you know. When dad died, you were there and I don't think you ever understood, but you did what you could, more than I could expect. You did my homework for me for at least a month afterwards."

You smile a little at that, "Yeah well, I had too much time on my hands. The story of my childhood," you raise a hand ambivalently and your tone is sarcastic; it's not something that bothers you any more, "A lot of time to think, read and grow up."

"We both grew up too fast you know," he muses, "After dad died, I always felt that I had to look out for my family, hold everything together. Mom always talked to me, she never talked to the girls about what happened and it was hard at first, because I just didn't want to talk about it. I thought if I ignored it, it would just go away. But I had to listen to her, because she was my mom. And she would just cry for hours. I… I used to tell her it would be all right," he laughs again, mirthlessly, "Anyway, I felt five years older overnight. Nothing was ever the same after that. And you were always so much older than me. Even when we were both seven-years-old and playing on the playground, I used to feel so stupid next to you because you'd read about everything and you always seemed so much older than all the other kids."

"After your dad died I felt that way," you tell him, "It was like you were suddenly so serious, so mature and I wanted to be a kid again, desperately. I realised that a little too late; I always wanted to be older, to have adventures and to _do_ things and by the time I go to ten, thirteen, fifteen, twenty-seven I'd lost that enthusiasm waiting around. I've been waiting for something to start my whole life and I still have no idea what it is."

"Yeah," he twists around on the chair and rests his feet against the desk, rocking backwards to look at you, "I always think I've found it, when we started high school, when we started college, when I met Amy, when we started med school, when I met Addison, when we started our internship, when I married Addison, when we started residency, when we finished residency, Seattle, Meredith," he shrugs, "I always think it's it, whatever it is. I'm always wrong."

You meant to ask when he briefly mentioned Meredith before, because you thought there was some allusion to the intern when he expressed his confusion about his feelings but somehow the conversation veered elsewhere before you had a chance. Curiously, you ask him, "How are things with Meredith? You sound…"

"Tired," he finishes your sentence for you, which is a blessing in disguise because you were unsure of what word to use, "Not in the physical sense that I need sleep, in the emotional sense that I'm utterly exhausted. It's hard; being pissed at Addison, being pissed at you, wondering if there's absolutely no point in trying with Meredith since she still doesn't trust me, it's just tiring. And I'm sick of it being so difficult. Life shouldn't be about walking uphill forever."

"It's deceptive like that," you say reflectively, "Sometimes you think you've hit the downhill stretch and it turns out to be a steeper incline than you ever imagined."

"I guess we're friends again," he laughs at you, "Since you've started using metaphors and I've started to think that I can't run away from everything. I always try, but you know that. You've always been the one to kick the back of my ankles until I'm back on track. You never let me run."

"Denial was always your default position," you shrug, "And mine I guess, to a lesser extent. It's easier to see your own faults in others."

"It got easier to avoid the issues," he sighs, "As we got older and the issues got bigger, it was easier to pretend they weren't issues than to face up to them. But I disagree: you were always one to love confrontation."

"Not about important things," you say, "Not when they concerned me and how I felt about things. I can argue about other people and about issues, things, but not about myself."

"You're talking about Addison," he accuses, putting his feet on the floor and twisting his upper body to face you.

"So are you," you respond quietly.

"Yeah," he clenches his hands into fists, "But not like you're thinking probably. We had problems… before. We, I… I don't know, I got busy and suddenly she had changed so much that I just didn't know what to do. So I got busier. It was easier. And I don't want to talk about this, because I'd probably want to beat you up again and that would be morally bankrupt, considering you're too sick to hit back but," he pauses, "I… a part of me sort of hoped she'd do something. It wasn't the fact that she slept with someone else, that was almost welcome, that was concrete proof that we actually had a problem that I couldn't deny. It was that it was you. That was what really got me. That was why I left and that was why I just… couldn't look at her. I couldn't believe she would… that you would… you were my best friends. You were my _family_."

"I know," you stare at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes, "It was… a shitty thing to do. But Derek, at the time, I swear, it was just… you know maybe it didn't mean anything to her, maybe she was just trying to get back at you for picking surgery over her one too many times, I don't know. But I never did it to hurt you. I didn't do it for the hell of it, because I could, because in some twisted way I'd one up you again. It was never a competition. Not with her."

"I don't care why you did it," he scowls, "You were my best friend, you were like a brother to me and she was my wife. You shouldn't have."

"I know," you say, "These days I wish I hadn't because we all would have been better off."

"The fucked up thing is that I'm not sure we would have been," he sighs, "Addison and I would've ended up here anyway. It might have taken five years but it would have happened eventually. It would be easy to blame it on you or Meredith but it was… you don't fall in love with someone else when you're in love. I loved her but we were young and so much happened in those ten years. We grew up. We became different people."

"I don't think she ever loved me," you say and it's more resentful than you intended.

"She said she did," he wets his lips nervously and looks uncomfortable, "When she said that you were with her, after I left and that," he sighs, "And that she only came to Seattle because you cheated on her."

"You know I suck at relationships," you respond quietly.

"You're an ass," he says, "I can tell you're beating yourself up over it and I just want to know that you should be."

"It was complicated," you run your hand over your face and groan a little, "It was… everything was against it. Her feelings, my feelings, our history, my inability to behave like a regular human being, her impossible perfectionism and the circumstances all meant it was something we didn't discuss."

"I still can't believe you screwed my wife, effectively ruining our thirty year friendship and then you fucked it up with her," he looks a little sad, "The whole thing seems so fucking pointless."

"I wasn't the only one who fucked it up," you say defensively, "And it wasn't easy. You think we didn't miss you? You think she didn't still love you? You think that the thought didn't cross my mind that it wasn't worth losing my best friend over? Both of you just blame it on me, as though I was the only one who crossed a line, who made a mistake, who fucked things up. We all made mistakes Derek and she did her share of shitty things. She didn't come to Seattle because I cheated on her. She… we were both avoiding the issues at that point. At first I was almost happy that she was gone. It was a relief."

"Yeah," he sighs, "That's how I felt when I came to Seattle; leaving it behind was easier than facing up to it. What the hell happened anyway? She said it was just you being, well, _you_ but I… I was so pissed off that I wasn't really listening."

"She wouldn't have told you," you laugh bitterly at the thought, "She never admits she's done anything wrong unless she's too drunk to walk."

"That's true," he looks the tiniest bit sympathetic, "She was always like that outwardly. She beats herself up over things though. You shouldn't be too hard on her; she's usually too hard on herself."

"Did you ever talk about kids?" you change the subject only slightly but he still looks surprised.

"Yeah," he shrugs, "I always wanted a family but we were going to wait until she was more successful, then I was busy and it just didn't happen. I don't know if I regret that now. This would have been so much harder if there were children involved."

"Speaking as a child of divorce, it's something you get over," you offer and then consider how to phrase your next, "Do you have the first idea about being a father?"

He looks at you suspiciously, "What don't I know about this?"

"Just," you make a fist, "Answer the question."

"My father died when I was nine," he bites down on his lip, "I've almost forgotten him. So no, I have no idea how to be a father. I," he shrugs, "I'm sure I'd struggle with it, probably screw it up."

"She was pregnant."

"What?" he blinks at you.

"Addison," you explain calmly, "Was pregnant. I don't know how it happened exactly because she said… we were careful, or I was always under the impression that we were. But anyway, she just blurted it out one night and obviously I was surprised but I wasn't unhappy with the idea. It's not something we'd talked about," you grin wryly, "Because what had we talked about really? But as far as I was concerned we were in it together. And she seemed ok with it at first, but…" you trail off and shrug, "She told me I would have made a terrible father."

He takes a moment to regroup, staring at you thoughtfully for a long moment before he says, "I guess you never really had a father either."

You shrug, "No. I have even less experience with the idea than you."

"And she," he swallows and gestures with his hand, "What happened? She obviously would have been due."

"She wanted a baby," you quote her words emotionlessly, "Just not with me. And I'm not going to say I didn't sleep with other women… I did, not a lot and not all the time, but there were… I cheated on her, once, twice, probably more than that but we were never exclusive. She never once said she wanted a relationship; that it was me and her and that was it. She just sort of… it just happened. And after the baby, it was different, for me at least. But she just kept pushing me away and she wouldn't tell me what she wanted and I didn't," you sigh, "I'm not going to pretend I didn't screw up; I did. I slept with some nurse, and when she found out she just… well, she didn't want a baby with me."

He looks surprised and is momentarily speechless. When he does respond he just says quietly, "She was always against it. Abortion I mean, she always said it wasn't the only option."

You let your head fall backward against the wall once more. "I'm not saying she didn't make the right decision. It would have been complicated. It's easy to look back and say that it didn't have to be the way it was in hindsight. It's easy to forget all the crap that went on but," you pause and collect your thoughts, "In all honesty I know that we weren't ready for it and that it would have made things complicated rather than simple. I still think we could have worked it out. I still think she should have discussed it with me instead of just," you look up, "She just did it. She didn't tell me. If it wasn't what she wanted she could have said something. I mean, I never even thought about having kids. But if it was what she wanted, I would have done it for her," you pause, "Why the hell are we having this conversation anyway? You probably hate me even more now."

"I can sympathise with both sides," he remarks, "I mean you fucked up. You cheated on her when she was pregnant and if she was already unsure about it," he shrugs, "You can see where she's coming from."

"You think I'd make a crappy father?"

"Hey, I have no idea what makes a good one."

"I'm told that you have to be attentive, like kids and remember birthdays," you cough and wipe at your nose, feeling the same loathing of illness you've always felt since you were a child.

He laughs outright, "Well, I guess we'd both be terrible fathers."

"It makes it sound so simple doesn't it?" you smile a little, "As though all it really takes is a good memory and good intentions."

"You think your father had good intentions?" he asks suddenly, "I never really knew him but do you think he tried to be such a …"

"Fuck up of a father?" you supply.

"Not the words I would have used," he says diplomatically, "But if the shoe fits."

"I don't know," you admit, "I don't know if he ever wanted kids or if it was just because he was busy and when he wasn't working, he spent most of his time arguing with my mother. I don't remember much about him but," you shrug, "It doesn't matter to me. He walked out and never apologised for it. You've got to admire that."

"In some strange twisted way?" Derek raises an eyebrow at you.

"He didn't hang around and pretend to care," you explain, "My mother… my mother never gave a shit. I was meant to save their marriage you know," you laugh a little, and you don't think you've ever told him this, "I think she blamed me in a way, as though it somehow had anything to do with me. I still think she was certifiably insane."

He smirks at you, "Oh yeah. Remember when you found her Prozac and we spent ages snickering about it because it seemed to explain so much?"

You grin a little and roll your eyes, "In retrospect, I think we should have been looking for Zyprexa. I think she lived in her own little world more than the real one."

"That would explain the three husbands, each more insufferable than the next."

"My father never did any lasting damage," you shrug, "And I guess that as a parent, that's the least you can do. He taught me enough about being a decent doctor to make an impression as a professional. As a father, not so much but I still remember when he would take me to the nursing home on the way home from school," you shudder a little, "I hated it, but it said a lot about how dedicated you have to be to your profession when you study medicine. I think," you sigh, "And no offence or anything, but I think I understood what I was in for a hell of a lot better than you ever did."

"That's a fair call," he nods, "I never thought it would be so… not challenging necessarily but demanding, personally and especially in terms of time. The thing is you never really leave your job. Coming to terms with that and learning to get my priorities right was the hardest thing for me. Took me long enough," he grins ruefully, "And I don't think Addison will ever forgive me for that."

"She should understand," you point out, "Her dad was a surgeon and she's a surgeon."

"But like you said," he points out, "Being the daughter of a doctor, she probably had a better idea of what she was up for and was better equipped to deal with it accordingly."

"Well I can't honestly say that I had my priorities right," you counter, "I worked a lot. And it was hard work, opening the practise, running the business and all that. By the time I was where I wanted to be it had been years and," you shrug, "Same shitty personal life."

He laughs a little at that, "You never tried. I've known you forever and whenever it came to women, you just never tried to do more than get into their pants."

"Very few caught my attention," you declare, "And the ones that did never held it for very long."

"I don't think you'd be a terrible father," he announces suddenly, "In the right circumstances, with the right person, I think… I think we'd both do all right. At least you know what _not_ to do."

"This is true," you smile in amusement.

"And sure," he presses his lips together and looks a little sheepish, "I'd probably forget my daughter's birthday once or twice but that's why kids have mothers isn't it?"

"Yeah," you grin at him, "Isn't it ironic? I'm sort of jealous of your sisters. I bet they all know how to be mothers, growing up in your household. I mean, your mom was great. I know exactly how moms are supposed to be because of her. Figures we would have a great role model for a role we'll never have to play."

He smirks at you, "True. Irony..."

"It's a bitch," you finish the old sentiment with a similar grin on your face.

"And maybe we'd work too much," he continues his previous thought but you easily follow the jump in his thoughts, "Maybe we'd get sick of the kids running around the house screaming but I still think we'd do all right. Sure, you'd probably tell your sons things about sex that would firstly, be inappropriate for their age and secondly, get them into a hell of a lot of trouble but at least you'd be honest. And sure, I'd be overprotective of my daughters and at the same time, far too indulgent, but that's nothing you can't recover from. We wouldn't do any lasting damage."

"No," you agree quietly.

"I'm sorry," he says awkwardly, "About what happened with Addison."

"Hey," you look resigned, "It was probably for the best."

"That doesn't mean it's not hard," he observes pointedly and you think that maybe, he's right. Maybe all this will work out for the best. Maybe you'll all be able to move past it.

"How long had you been sitting there anyway?" you ask.

"Few hours," he yawns, "I told you she made me promise to stay."

"True," you shrug, "But she wouldn't know the difference. We're on bizarre terms right now; I highly doubt she'll be calling round to check up on either of us."

He laughs dryly, "This is true. But you stayed. Whenever I wanted you to piss off but needed you to stay, whenever I felt so crap I wanted the world to swallow me whole, you always stayed. And Mexico aside, you never asked the same of me."

He pauses and your lungs try to expel themselves from your body through you mouth once more. When you resettle yourself and wipe at your eyes, sipping at the water gingerly he continues.

"And since I spent most of the time in Mexico puking in the bathroom sink myself," he grins, "I figured I owed you."

"I've never been able to drink tequila since that night," you admit.

He nods, "No me either. Meredith loves it. She… it always reminds me of that trip. I never wanted to go but you and Ad convinced me. She makes me feel younger."

"When did we get so old?" you groan.

"I don't know," he admits, "Yesterday we were all sitting around discussing what we were going to buy with our first pay checks, you remember that?"

You smirk, "Yeah, and Addison said you were boring because you told her you were going to start paying off your student loans."

"And then she teased you about hiring a hooker."

You roll your eyes, "Naturally I told her unless she was looking for work, I'd never considered the possibility of needing a hooker. And when we asked her what she was going to buy she said…"

"Shoes," Derek groans, "More shoes."

You smirk at him, "The only thing that your crappy apartment was more overpopulated and more overrun by than sewer rats was shoes."

He smiles fondly, "Yeah. You know, I like being able to walk from A to B in the trailer without tripping over a pair of ludicrously expensive heels. But I still miss it."

"I sort of know what you mean," you say.

"It speaks volumes about the strange nature of our friendship that we can sympathise with each other about the same girl," he observes wryly.

"Hey I slept with Amy more than once before you started dating her," you point out, "And after you broke up with Emma I went out with her. And we both went through the brief and misguided period with Yasmine."

"We always had the same taste in women," he groans, "Why is that?"

"Great minds think alike?"

He smirks, "True."

"Thanks," you say suddenly, "For staying. For talking. For not hating me. I don't know. Just… thanks."

He is suddenly a lot more serious, "You're welcome."

"You can go and get something to eat you know," you tell him, "I promise I won't tell Addison."

He smirks, "I could use a coffee actually. You want anything?"

You groan and roll your eyes, "Other than legal euthanasia, no."

"You always were a baby when you were sick," he shakes his head at you, "And you know, I've missed this."

"What? My glands secreting mucus that looks as though it could be radioactive?"

He smirks, "Well, as afore mentioned, karma is a bitch. But no, I meant talking. I haven't… there's no one in Seattle I can talk to like we used to. Everyone here is far too involved with either Meredith or Addison to consider things neutrally. And obviously, you're messed up in it all too but somehow," he shrugs, "You used to get it. And somehow I think you still do."

You nod, "Yeah, well thirty years will do that."

"And I can't hate you in spite of your obvious faults," he sighs, "I can't even bring myself to be pissed off about them. Sure you've been a shitty friend but it's been so long that they're just parts of you to me. Even the propensity to sleep with other people's wives," he narrows his eyes at you, "Not that I condone the practise or that I'm willing to forgive you for it just yet, but it's just… you."

You look from side to side and say, "Yeah well, that tendency for you to be a self-righteous pariah living in denial is just you being you too."

He chuckles to himself, "Fair call."

You sigh, "I missed you. When you went to Seattle, I realised I've never had any other friends because I didn't need or want them. Sure, there were people I liked who I casually talked to on occasion but you were always the only one who wasn't completely affronted by brutal honesty and complete disregard of all things politically correct. I couldn't really talk to anyone else about what was going on and… I needed to I guess. I'm socially and emotionally retarded, especially when it comes to relationships. I could have used a pointed nudge or kick in the right direction."

"Given the circumstances," he stands and leans against the desk, "I doubt I would have been able to neutrally advise you."

"Given the circumstances," you retort, "And you actions upon seeing me, I don't think I would have been able to ask you without getting hit in the face."

"You deserved it," he responds easily.

"Yeah," you shrug, "Probably. I didn't hit you back. You deserved that, for running away and for fucking it up with her in the first place."

"Probably," he looks a little sheepish, "We probably both deserved a lot worse than what we got, physically anyway."

"You think that emotionally you've paid your dues?" you raise an eyebrow.

"I think that emotionally," he scuffs his shoes against the carpet, "We've all paid our dues."

You yawn a little and open your mouth to speak to find no sound.

"Ah," he smirks, "I guess that's a sign that this conversation should be adjourned for the time being."

You clear your throat, "Go get your coffee."

"I'm going," he assures you, moving towards the door, "And if Addison comes after me to kick my ass I'm going to blame you."

"Oh sure, because it's my fault your ex-wife wants to hurt you," you tease.

"If you don't tell her how long I sat in that God awful and uncomfortable chair," he points out, "It will be."

"Like I said, I doubt she'll be calling around any time soon."

"You'd be surprised," he smiles conspiratorially, "She was incredibly distraught when I got here; unsettled enough to call me in the first place. I always told you that she liked you."

You roll your eyes, "And I always told you that you'd marry her."

He shrugs, "We could both be right."

"Are you leaving any time soon?" you mutter sarcastically.

"I'm going, I'm going."

The door closes behind him and you've just closed your eyes, resting against the pillows when the key slides into the slot and it opens again. You open one eye and regard him with a distinct lack of amusement as he sticks his head through the opening and says, "We can get past this. Can't we?"

"I keep asking myself that," you sigh, "I certainly hope so."

"Good," he says and the door closes once more.

You have a lot to reflect on but suddenly you're too tired to do much more than stretch against the sheets and promptly fall asleep again.


	5. Irony And The Memory Of Happiness

**Chapter Five: Irony And The Memory Of Happiness.**

The room is dark and some terrible song (Heartbreaker by Dionne Warwick) is playing in the background. Derek is busy with a disgusting looking liquid which you pride yourself on having too much good taste to consume. The party is a little loud and it's a little too soon for either of you to want to join in, so you're both standing in one corner of the room trying to get tolerably drunk in order to have a good time.

Across the room, a girl whose name you can't recall is looking at you both at intervals. She turns her head every time you meet her eyes but you can tell she's looking. Your delightfully subtle companion is of course returning the favour, and playfully you tell him to close his mouth. He glares at you and resumes his thoughtful scrutiny of her, tilting his head to peer around a group of people in the middle of the room.

"She's staring at you," you tell him, "Every time you turn around."

"Really?" he doesn't take his eyes off her and he sounds distant.

You roll your eyes, "Yes you moron. Stop looking, you're creeping me out. Go talk to her."

"Hey," he nudges your side, "You're the one who knows she's staring."

"Derek," you nudge him back, "She's hot, but I'm not the one raping her with my eyes. Talk to her."

"Not yet," he shrugs and turns around for five seconds, as though this proves he's a regular sane person and not a hormone and alcohol ridden young adult.

You sigh as he reaches for another shot of some description and say, "Fine, then I'll talk to her."

"Good idea," he narrows his eyes at you, "You rape her literally, we'll play good cop bad cop."

"I said talk," you insist.

"Yeah well," he teases, "One minute you're talking to them, the next they're naked. One day," he sighs, "I'm going to figure out how you do it."

You smirk, "There's no secret Derek. The ladies just love me."

He slaps your arm, "You jackass."

"We all have our strengths and weaknesses," you muse, grabbing the half-full shot from his hands and finishing it yourself since he already looks drunk, "You happen to be the dreamy, sensitive guy with a girlfriend and I am the arrogant yet strangely charming single one. Where the hell is Amy?"

"Studying," he sighs, "And stop reminding me I'm an ass for looking at other women. You're supposed to be my partner in crime."

"Hey," you shrug, "I don't blame you. She's got that awkward-shy drinking-alone-in-the-corner thing going on, but damn," you both watch the red-head for a minute, "I'd do more than look if I was you."

"Which begs the question," he leans back against the wall and looks at you curiously, "Since you're the single, arrogant yet strangely charming womaniser, why are you merely looking?"

You shrug, "Because. You've had a crush on her since we started here."

"Yeah," he waves a hand dismissively, "But I couldn't resent you for it. Besides, given your track record," he gives her another quick once over, "I give it a week, tops."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But she's in our anatomy lab," you remind him, "Things could get awkward."

"That's never stopped you before," he muses.

"Oh fine," you roll your eyes, "Send me to do your dirty work. One of these days, _I_ get to be the good cop."

"I thought it was in your nature to be bad," he teases you.

"This is true," you shrug, "And break up with Amy for crying out loud. You'll have to do _that_ for yourself."

"Find out her name for me," he claps you on the shoulder and you resign yourself to the difficult task of chatting up this woman for the sole purpose extracting a name and phone number. It's not that you're going to have to pretend to be interested in her, it's just that you're going to have to tread carefully and not get _too_ interested since this is mostly a favour for Derek. Ordinarily you'd wait for a more subtle opportunity.

Instead you suck it up and walk across the room.

"You're staring," you observe, joining her in her corner.

"Oh," she looks startled, "Am I?"

"Yes," you nod, "Funny, I would have picked you for the girl to walk up and make the first move."

"Really?" she sounds unamused, "On what grounds? Given that you know nothing about me."

"I know plenty about you," you shrug, "Anatomy, 2:30 on Wednesday. Physiology, 1:30 Tuesday. Molecular biology and genetics, 9:00 on Thursday morning. And you're obviously organised because you got the coveted 11 am perspectives on the practise of medicine compulsory-attendance lecture on Fridays. I got stuck in the 4pm one."

"So you're stalking me," she sniffs, "You still know nothing about me."

"Hey I'm not the one stalking you," you search her eyes, fascinated by the stubborn resolve you see there, "And I know you've got it bad for that guy over there."

You nod in Derek's direction.

She blushes but otherwise manages to maintain her poker face, merely raising an eyebrow at you, "Oh? And you figured this out how?"

"You're staring," you repeat, smiling smugly, "His name is Derek by the way."

"So you're stalking him as well?"

"He's my best friend," you tell her, "I'm Mark, he's Derek and you are the pretty redhead in our anatomy lab."

"I didn't know you were in my class," she says conversationally.

"We sit at the back," you look left and right, "Making inappropriate jokes?"

"Oh yeah," she rolls her eyes, "You're both idiots."

"Does the pretty redhead from anatomy have a name?" you pester, stepping a little closer.

She shuffles sideways, "Should the pretty redhead from anatomy tell you her name? Or will it just encourage you?"

"Hey at least I'm asking," you counter, "I'll bet some of them don't bother."

"Addison," she says after a moment of hesitation, "I'm Addison."

"Addison," you try it out, "Addie? Ads?"

"Addison," she narrows her eyes at you.

"Ok Addison it is," you say to appease her, "So tell me the truth, why haven't you gone up to talk to him yet?"

"Because," she blushes even more.

"If it's because he's with me," you wink at her, "We're close, but not that close."

"No," she sniffs, "I just…"

"Couldn't make up your mind?" you tease.

"Is _he_ this charming?" she blinks at you.

"No," you smirk, "I've got all the charm; he's got all the tact."

"Funny," she says, "I thought the two were coexistent."

"I'm living rebuttal," you inform her.

"Sure you are," she rolls her eyes.

"He likes you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Then why are _you_ the one who knows my schedule and is asking my name?" she tosses her hair a little dramatically.

"Because," you reiterate, "I'm the charming one."

She shakes her head at you, "Tell Derek that if he wants to ask me out, he'll have to do it. We're not in elementary school."

"Ok," you agree, "I'll let him know."

She smiles shyly, "Thanks, I think."

"You're welcome," you watch as she moves to walk away then call after her, "Addison?"

"Yes?" she blinks at you.

"How about a phone number?"

She laughs, "No way, he'll have to ask for that himself too."

"Not for him," you flash her your most adorable grin, "For me. Please?"

"You'll never remember to call," she challenges.

"Well I won't if you don't give me the number," you agree sarcastically, "Come on; it can't hurt if I'm going to forget anyway."

"And if you remember?" she's flirting with you now, "Will it hurt then?"

"I'll be gentle," you try not to smirk too much, "I promise."

She licks her lips nervously, "I reserve the right to blame this on the cheap drinks."

"You really couldn't decide which one of us you like," you observe as she scrawls the digits on a scrap of paper and reaches behind you to tuck it in your back pocket.

Her eyes twinkle mysteriously, "Well, he's cute but you're… something else. I can't put my finger on it."

"Keep trying," you can't resist, "I'm sure you'll get it eventually."

Somehow she picks up the allusion and follows your train of thought. She lets her hands rest on your shoulders and rolls her eyes at you, "You think you're such a bad boy don't you?"

She touches the side of your face and says in a low voice, "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure," you nod and she pulls your head down to whisper in your ear.

"You're not fooling me," her breath tickles the side of your face, "Underneath it all, you're not even half bad."

She pushes you backwards abruptly, holding you by your collar and brushes her lips against yours quickly before spinning on her ridiculously high heels and sauntering away.

She turns back and yells over her shoulder, "Call me. And tell Derek to ask _me_ my name."

You sort of look after her and nod, dumbly, because you're still trying to figure out what the hell happened.

"Hey man," Derek smirks at you, "The one that got away huh?"

"She gave me her number," you mumble, still a little shocked, "After she told you to ask her out."

"And then she kissed you?" Derek looks as confused by this as you do.

"I know," you raise your hands in a hopeless gesture, "She likes you though."

"Women make no sense," he pouts to himself and reaches for another plastic cup filled with God awful beer.

"Agreed," you echo his gesture.

"Promise me," he says, "That whatever happens, we'll never let some chick come between us."

You're about to laugh and call him a sentimental fag when he raises a hand to stop you, "I know, I know. It sounds like crap from a movie, but seriously Mark, they're never going to make sense. Even if either of us find one willing to put up with us through med school and residency and then the shitty hours, they're always going to be … weird and they're never going to get it, not really. You get it. I get it. They," he waves a hand about, "Are a different species. So promise me."

You shake your head at him, "Dude, I'll call your mother mom and she has photos of us showering together, naked. I don't think you have a choice when it comes to that kind of friendship."

He laughs, "No, I suppose you're right. Because if you ever ditch me for a lady friend I'm going to call mom and get to send me some of those really embarrassing photos of you she's got hidden in the shoebox under her bed to use as blackmail."

You shove him, playfully, "Of the two of us, I a) had the sense to be camera shy and b) am far less likely to find a woman to put up with me than you. But thanks for the idea. I'll keep it in mind when you and this Addison girl get seriously disgusting."

"How do you know _you_ and this Addison girl aren't going to get disgusting?" he pauses, "Is that her name? Addison?"

"Yeah," you shrug, "I don't know, Addison Sloan sounds stupid. Addison Shepherd… it's got a ring to it."

He groans, "I couldn't even say hi and suddenly she's my future wife?"

"I have a sixth sense about these things," you tease.

"Sure you do," Derek rolls his eyes, "And I for one know that you'd never pass up a chance to sleep with a girl like that, last names aside. Maybe she'd hyphenate."

And suddenly its five years later and you're wearing an itchy tux thinking that irony is a bitch and giving a speech at their wedding.

"The night Derek met Addison, we were joking that we'd never let a woman come between us. Of course then Derek met Addison and all that was forgotten."

Everyone laughs, and Addison meets your eyes, shaking her head at you.

"But I suppose if it had to be anyone, I'd want it to be her. I still can't figure out why someone with her class, intelligence and sense of humour chose to latch onto my idiot best friend," more laughter, "But I guess I would have been a terrible friend to point that out to her _before_ there was a rock on her finger and a legally binding contract to stop her changing her mind."

Derek smiles at you and the room erupts in laughter once more.

"Anyway, we all know who the better half is," you raise your glass in Addison's direction, "But this is one occasion I'll have to side with the underdog," you raise your hand and cough 'the Red Sox' and Derek rolls his eyes, "Because if it wasn't for my best friend breaking his promise, I wouldn't have two best friends sitting in front of me with those ridiculous smiles on their faces. So congratulations Derek, on finding someone as amazing as Addison _and_ convincing her to let you call her Addie, no small feat, believe me I've tried. And good luck Addison, because hell, living with him? You're gonna need it."

You pause until everyone is silent once more and think it's lucky you can keep a straight face, in different circumstances it might have been a challenge.

"All right, this is the sappy part, get your tissues ready Mrs Shepherd," Derek's mother is already crying of course, for the fifth time and you watch her fondly as she blows her nose.

"I have to thank Addison for stealing my best friend and returning him in much better condition. I've known Derek for a long time and I've never seen him so happy, not ever when Elise Smith agreed to go with him to senior prom. And I have to thank Derek, for making Addison smile. You guys are my best friends and more than anything, I want every one to join me in this, more than anything I wish you every happiness no matter what happens."

Derek's mother is bawling by the end and you see Addison shed a few tears of her own, carefully hidden by a curtain of hair and a flute of champagne. She reaches for you hand when you sit beside her at the table and squeezes it under the table cloth.

"Thank you," she whispers, "Your speech was beautiful."

"Beautiful speech for a beautiful girl," you tease her about her choice of words.

"Shut up Sloan," she hisses, biting down on her lip and tearing up once more, "It's my wedding day and I'll cry if I want to. Did I really steal your best friend?"

"You agreed to share him," you tell her and meet Derek's eyes, smiling at them both, "Which is good enough for me."

She smiles widely and cries against his shoulder for a while and he says to you, "Man, women still don't make sense. She keeps telling me it's the happiest day of her life yet here she is bawling."

You grin at him, "I get it."

"You get it," he repeats.

"We get it."

It's not the same as it was and from now on everything is going to change, but you do want them to be happy. All three of you are 25-years-old. You've changed irrevocably and that hurts somewhere inside your chest, but still, you're excited about the future.

The next day you're all back at the hospital and nothing is different except that she has to pin her wedding rings to her scrubs during surgery. Somehow all three of you got stuck on call, but it's not so bad because you're all there together. The gurney is hard, the metal is cold and the joke's not even that funny but still, you're all laughing so much that Addison finally starts crying.

It's a simple, uncomplicated moment and you're so certain that it will all work out, that she's in love with him and he loves her and they deserve each other, no matter how much you wonder how it would've been different. You're so _happy_, all of you, and so you giggle about nothing until Derek beams at you and Addison wipes at her eyes, sliding her fingers through Derek's and grabbing your hand impulsively.

"Promise me," she says, "That no matter what happens, we'll all remember how happy we are now. I never want to forget. And life is going to get crazy, we're all going to go our separate ways and do different things, but we'll always have this."

"You're a sap," you tell her.

Derek chuckles with you, "But she does have a point. When we're old and bitter and holding a scalpel hurts because of the rheumatoid arthritis, I'm going to remember this and it'll still make me smile."

"You're my best friends," she says, "I'm so lucky to have you. I never want to forget how lucky I am."

"Yeah," you echo their sentiments with a smile, "That's what scares me the most. Forgetting to be exhilarated by surgery, forgetting what it's like to be young."

"Right now I feel like I could live forever," she closes her eyes and falls back against the wall.

Her head makes a dull thud. She pulls back in alarm and the crappy plasterboard is left with a small crack and a concave dint. At that you all dissolve into giggles on more and for weeks afterwards whenever you pass that particular wall all three of you have to hide your smiles.

Since then you've never quite laughed so much about nothing. Since then you've been convinced that happiness is a fleeting feeling rather than a state of being, that if you could travel back in time you would focus on remembering everything, every single second of that feeling of absolute joy lifting your cheeks and making a 30 hour shift seem bearable. It's a blur to you now, a non-specific smudge in your memory and all you can remember is the feeling that you were indestructible, that you had your whole life ahead of you and even if Addison loved Derek and Derek loved Addison, it didn't matter because the world was at your feet. You had two best friends and there was nothing you couldn't do.


	6. Love, Friendship And Triangle Geometry

**Chapter Six: Of Love, Friendship And Triangle Geometry.**

The knock on the door is soft at first; you're barely awake and it incorporates itself into your semi-conscious thoughts, gradually becoming louder until you groan and realise someone is trying to get in, someone other than Derek, and that can only mean Addison.

With some difficulty you roll out of bed and realise you're still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You walk over to the wall and call out to her, telling her to hang on and quickly change before pulling open the door to reveal her standing nervously and clutching at the hem of her sweater, twisting the cashmere between her fingers.

"Hi," she says, "I um, just… hi."

"Hey," you croak and step backwards, "Welcome to my cesspool of horrid disease."

She smiles a little and steps through the doorway, "Where's Derek? I thought he stayed with you. You know," she looks faintly embarrassed, "Just in case."

"He did," you assure her, flopping down on the bed again and leaning against the pillows, "He went to get coffee about ten minutes ago. He should be back soon."

"Oh I didn't really come to see him," she shrugs, "But um, well you know, I just wanted to make sure you were ok."

"Oh yeah," you roll your eyes, "I feel wonderful. Do you feel like mountain climbing? Parasailing? Poker? Whatever it is, I'm up for it."

She shakes her head at you with a small smile, "Don't be sarcastic. I was worried about you."

"So I've heard."

"You did sort of collapse in my hotel room," she narrows her eyes, "I feel justified in my concern."

"Refreshingly out of the ordinary," you mutter before you can stop yourself, realising that it's petty and superfluous.

She bristles slightly; you can see her jaw tense.

"You never cared for my concern before," she sniffs finally.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, confused and incredulous because as far as you're aware, she hasn't shown even the slightest regard for you since you made the move out West.

"I've tried to get you to act like a professional," she sighs, "I've told you over and over not to treat interns like slaves and I've been _concerned_ about you and your reputation. Do you know what people say about you? Do you?"

You let your head thump against the wall several times in succession because her logic is so twisted you can hardly find it in you to call it logic at all, "Interfering in my working life is your way of showing that you care?"

"No," she snaps quickly then shakes her head, "I mean, yes… I… I just wanted to make sure you were ok. That's all. I don't want to argue with you. I don't want to annoy you or make you angry Mark, I just," she clutches at the hair falling in her eyes and yanks in frustration, "I just wanted to make sure you were ok."

Your irritation dissipates a little when you see her stand there, pacing backward and forward and tearing at her strawberry curls. She's anxious and there's an unfamiliar sadness about her, one that you've noticed about Derek and yourself as well, as though she's finally realised the magnitude of everything she's lost or given up on over the past year. So you lie back against the pillows and sigh to yourself, closing your eyes and swallowing the sarcasm, for now.

"I'm fine," you tell her, "Sick but ok. You don't have to worry."

"I'm not worried," she says a little too quickly, "I just… you scared me a little for a minute."

You don't respond immediately and the ensuing quiet is more awkward than the silences with Derek.

"Addison, about what I said…"

She interrupts, "It's fine. You were, well, obviously you weren't thinking clearly and," she inhales noisily and looks shaken for a fleeting second before tucking her hair behind her ears and continuing, the picture of composure, "We'll talk about it when you're feeling better."

"I meant it," you admit quietly, not sure if she understands that.

"I know," she smiles at you, shy and tentative and barely a smile at all, "And I promise I'm not trying to avoid it. We'll just talk about it later ok?"

You nod, "Yeah."

"I um, talked to Richard," she claps her palms together and bites down on her lip, "When I went into the hospital earlier, and we've cleared your schedule until Monday, just in case."

"Thanks."

"So you're a little busy next week but I tried to," she looks embarrassed, "Shuffle things around wherever possible. And um, anything else you want me to do I can."

"No," you smile at her, "Thanks Ad."

"It's ok," she grins back a little.

"Do you want to sit down?" you point at the uncomfortable desk chair and she shrugs with the same nervous energy that has characterised her actions since she showed up, "Well I suppose I could, for a bit. Just until Derek gets back and…"

You try not to laugh at her, but it's a little hard. As it is, you smirk and interject with a simple command; "Sit."

"Sitting," she commentates, and sinks down into the chair, pulling it a little closer to the side of your bed and folding her legs neatly.

"Actually," you look up thoughtfully, "There is one thing you could do. Talk to Karev for me."

She blinks at you, "As in Alex Karev? The intern?"

"The one you mauled at Joe's?" you raise a teasing eyebrow at her, and your tone echoes the gesture.

She blushes, "Yeah that one?"

You find yourself smirking again; it's too damn funny when she gets flustered, "Yeah, that one."

"You want me to talk to him?" she grips at her elbows and looks confused, "About what?"

"Plastics versus gynie," you smile smugly, "I told him he had a choice, and he made it. But talk to him, see if he'll change his mind or let you know about my offer."

She looks at you, in that suspicious, prying sort of way where her eyelids are squeezed together and her forehead creases into dozens of little lines. You always watch her do it and fight the urge to reach out and smooth her skin; stop her from prematurely ageing.

"What offer?" she asks finally, "And why do I get the feeling you're manipulating me for your own purposes?"

"Because I am," you flash her your most charming smile, "Since I can't be at the hospital, you'll have to be me for a while, if you don't mind. And I want to know if Karev's serious about plastics. Otherwise, you can keep him."

"He's not serious about running your errands," she says pointedly, in that disdainful, self-righteous tone that always causes a twinge of rage to ball your fists. It's one of those irrational things that just annoy you, for whatever reason. She does it a lot with you; tries to act superior and chide you for your flaws as she perceives them. While you instinctively know it's just because you get to her, and she was the kind of girl that assholes like you made fun of in high school, it still bothers you.

So you spend a few seconds in silence before calmly telling her, "He will be, if he's serious about plastics."

She sighs, "You're from the old school."

You look at her, incredulous, "I think we're from the same school myself or did I imagine those four years of my medical training?"

"You're exactly like Doctor Bernstein," she accuses, "And you _hated_ him. Don't you remember? You used to chew my ear off to the point where I almost considered duct taping your whiny little mouth shut."

"Yeah," you sigh, "That's my point Addison. Internship is meant to be hard. Picking up dry cleaning is a good learning experience. Reinforces the concept of being at the bottom of the hierarchy, instils the desire to ascend in the pecking order," you pause and study her face carefully, to see if she's annoyed about this or if she understands what you're getting at, "And Bernstein was an ass. But he was a good surgeon and he taught me to be a good surgeon. And a lesson or two about respecting my superiors."

She snorts, "You don't respect anyone. You're Mark Sloan."

You cough a little, which silences your immediate protest to her 'it's because you're Mark' logic and instead just shake your head, "Addison, I respect people. I do it in a different way to a lot of people and just because I respect someone doesn't mean I don't see their faults. I won't lie about things like that and _some people_," perhaps that sounded a little too pointed, "Don't appreciate that, but that's the way I am. And I respected him. He wasn't my best friend; he was my teacher and a brilliant surgeon. That's the basis of a teaching hospital. We're not there to hold their hands and be the people they tell their deepest secrets."

She swallows and stares at her hands, "I know."

"And we're certainly not there to sleep with them," you wrinkle your nose, and sure, there's a faint possibility you're slightly jealous not that you'd ever admit it, but you also have a valid point.

"I didn't," she says quickly, "You know I didn't. And I wouldn't."

You don't disagree with her, but you don't agree with her either.

"I promised the kid a surgery on Monday," you change the subject slightly; "In the meantime, I want you to talk to him about his escape routes, the squishy pink one in particular."

"He's got potential," she brushes off your slur on her specialty and looks thoughtful, "In OB/GYN; he's got a lot of potential."

You nod, "I imagine he would. He's perceptive, underneath that suck up façade."

"He's like you," she admits quietly, "Like you used to be," she adds then changes her mind again, "Like you still are, underneath all that sarcasm, cynicism, bitterness, angst, experience," she laces her fingers together and squeezes at both her hands, looking up at you with a wistful smile, "I see a lot of you in him."

There's a part of your mind screaming dangerous territory at this point. That part of your mind is trying to stop other (more optimistic) parts of your mind making the inevitable connections. Suddenly you're curious about things you shouldn't be curious about. Is that why she took an interest in him in the first place? Is that why she… you do draw the line at considering the motives behind her drunken kisses but your mind steps over it a little anyway, though you deny it even to yourself.

"Yeah," you decide to steer clear of that particular mine and charter more neutral waters, "So do I. That's why I hate him so much. Son of a bitch will never learn."

She shakes her head, "He's different like that."

"Oh?" you raise an eyebrow, "And what makes you say that?"

"He listens to me," she counters defensively, "And he takes advice on board. You always knew better. You never bothered to listen to anybody who you didn't think was right, anyone who disagreed with you."

"That's not true," you sigh, because what she's really saying is 'you never listened to me' and the conversation would be so much easier if she'd just say that directly, as out of character as that would be, "I listened to you."

"That's not what I said," she snaps quickly, but not viciously and runs her hands along her arms momentarily before continuing, "He's willing to learn and he learns from his mistakes. You never did because you never thought you made mistakes."

"I didn't," you tell her, "For the most part. Neither did you."

She sighs, "I made plenty of mistakes."

"In the professional sense?" you look at her in disbelief, "That's something I've never heard you admit in as many words before."

She shakes her head, "Well professionally we all screwed up in that year, at least a little. We were learning. But no, I meant personally. I made plenty of mistakes."

"As we all did," you shrug it off.

"I'm sorry," she offers timidly, her hand pressed against her mouth to stifle the whisper so you barely hear it.

You stare at her, waiting for her to expand on that statement.

She meets your eyes and inhales sharply, "I'm sorry, for the mistakes I made."

You have no idea which parts she thinks were the mistakes, whether she means the initial affair, the subsequent relationship, the unplanned pregnancy, the termination, running away to Seattle, calling you again… the list is impressively long. You even wonder if she means before that; if she means flirting with you and dating Derek, if she means the first time you had sex, if she means marrying Derek in the first place.

She could mean anything.

It's a comfortably broad statement which cleverly avoids specificity but then again, maybe she just means she's sorry for everything. Sometimes it's hard to tell which decisions were the right decisions and which decisions were mistakes. When it comes to all of this, you think that maybe there is no right and wrong and somehow everything all of you ever did falls into the murky grey area in between the extremes.

"Yeah," you nod, "I know. I am too."

"Mark," she clutches at her elbows again and rocks from side to side a little, searching for words, "About what you said, I… I really do want to talk about it. I just want to think about it a little first."

Familiar ground is once again lost and you stall for a minute, unsure of how to respond.

Finally you decide on the simple answer, "Ok."

The silence that follows is less awkward than it should be. You stare at her, watching as she slips her teeth beneath her thumbnail and chews, tucking her hair behind her ears with her other hand. And she glances up at you every so often, meeting your eyes and looking more and more embarrassed, as though the blue irises and wide black pupils you're looking at are betraying some great secret.

They're not really.

You're confused about all of this.

It's a blessing when a key slips into the lock and Derek opens the door, yelling something about the mediocre coffee not quite making up for the crappy weather through the wall.

Addison stiffens and rearranges her skirt, tapping the point of her stilettos against the carpet and sighing.

You decide you're a horrible, horrible person but some part of you wants to see how the ex-happily-marrieds take this. It's interesting, in a clinical, 'I was forced to take psyche once' sort of way. (And you're a horrible person. Really.)

"Hey," he calls to you and you nod at him, watching as his eyes turn and rest on Addison. He doesn't manage an appropriate greeting in response, he just looks at her as though her being here _wasn't_ something he predicted (even though it was) and says "oh" about the same time that she says "Derek".

They eye each other for a minute and she shuffles anxiously in the chair, waiting for him to speak first though he is obviously doing the same.

The awkward silence is wearing slightly thin in entertainment value and you're considering stepping to save the day when Derek finally remembers himself and greets her with a smile, "Hi."

She relaxes. You can see it in the way everything seems to drop the slightest fraction of an inch and her answering smile is genuine, "Hey. How's your morning off?"

"Oh you know," he shrugs, "Playing nurse."

You all think exactly the same thing at exactly the same time, and you're biting down on your tongue when she smirks, "I'm going to avoid the obvious implications, particularly pertinent considering we're talking about _Mark_," you suppose that 'just Mark logic' is probably justified, given the whole deal with Charlotte, or Charlene or Char-someone; "And merely inform you that your pager's dead. Richard wanted you on a consult earlier and he's mighty annoyed with you."

He looks sideways, "It's not dead; just switched off."

She raises an eyebrow, "Funny, prior to this I was unaware you were actually aware an 'off' button existed on this particular wonder of modern technology."

"You live and you learn," he quips nonchalantly, leaning against the door.

She sighs, "This is true."

"We all deserve gold stars," you announce.

They both look at you with amused but clueless expressions on their faces.

"Well," you look at your watch, "All three of us have been in the same room for, oh, about two and a half minutes and no one has screamed, said anything uncivil or hurled a solid object at someone else. If we can make it to five minutes, I'll consider the possibility of commissioning medals."

They both roll their eyes and look exasperated and it's funny, how similar they look when they do it. They still _look_ married, though you can also see differences in the way they approach things. They don't think as similarly as they used to. Maybe it's age and experience, time rather than something else.

"What are you doing here anyway?" you ask, looking at Addison, "By my calculations it's the middle of the working day."

She shrugs and looks a little sheepish, "I sent Karev to the pit and pushed my 11:30 back a little. Technically I'm taking a suspiciously long lunch."

"Isn't there some law that says you have to stay in the hospital despite the long lunch?" you remark offhandedly, with a hint of sarcasm and she smirks a little, "Well yes, technically, I'm playing hooky. What? Are you going to tell on me?"

"Wow," Derek looks impressed, "Who taught you to bend the rules?" he pauses for a minute, and meets your eyes before shaking his head.

You grin a little.

He rolls his eyes, "Stupid question."

She folds her arms and huffs a little, "It's a quiet day."

"Touch wood," Derek looks as alarmed as you do and raps against the door, just as a precaution.

"God Addison," you add, "I'm the least superstitious person on the planet but everyone knows saying that is just _asking_ for a four car pile up and an overturned school bus."

"Well, provided there aren't three pregnant mothers involved in the accident," she stands and smooths her skirt anyway, "There shouldn't be any dramas."

"Five minutes and counting," you interject, changing the subject entirely, "Medals it is."

They both laugh quietly to themselves.

"Well," she clutches at the strap of her bag and blinks at you both, "I'm...," she gestures towards the door awkward and shuffles sideways towards it, "Going to … go now. I just, you know, wanted to make sure you were ok and everything so," she smiles, "Get better soon. And I'll see you both… later."

You exchange glances with Derek. It's been a painfully long time since you've shared that 'I just don't understand her sometimes' look, but it's still forces you to bite the inside of your cheeks a little to keep from smirking at her.

She blushes, "You're making fun of me."

"No," Derek assures her, far too quickly to be considered believable and you wonder why on earth he never learnt to lie.

"Yeah," you correct, giving up on the idea of _not_ smiling at her smugly, "You're cute when you're nervous."

She glowers at you for a second and tosses her hair, "Fine. I'm going."

"Bye," you call after her, still teasing because you can see her shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"Good to see you Addie," Derek pulls open the door for her and leans against the doorframe; they talk for a minute, just whispered and insignificant words probably though you can barely hear and he watches her walk down the hall for longer than is strictly dignified to watch your ex-wife.

"Don't make me call you on that staring thing," you say and he turns to face you slowly, running his free hand over his face and crushing the paper coffee cup between the fingers of the other.

He sighs, open-mouthed and tosses the cup into the trash so hard the vile plastic creation rocks from side to side. The gesture speaks of frustration, anger and uncertainty so you watch him for a second, waiting for him to speak. Finally you have to break the silence; it's tense and awkward. You don't feel like that now.

But he looks up just as you move to speak and meets your eyes.

"Don't," he says simply.

"What?" you counter defensively.

"You're going to ask me what I'm thinking," he tells you, "Or even worse, how I'm feeling and it's just going to make me want to hit you, so don't."

You shrug since that was exactly what you were going to ask, "Ok. But if you're going to sit there and be angry at the world could you do it quietly? I can practically _hear_your self-pity and angst."

"And I can almost physically _feel_ your apathy," he glares, "So don't try and pretend you give a shit."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" you respond, offended, "If you don't want to discuss your obvious over-reaction to seeing your ex-wife, fine but just because you don't want to talk doesn't mean I'm not willing to at least pretend to listen."

You would nod in all the right places if he wanted you to.

"If you gave a shit," he counters, "You wouldn't have fucked her in the first place."

"Really charming way to talk about a woman Derek," you retort pettily, "Your mother would be proud."

"This is from the guy who screwed his childhood best friend's wife," he answers in a similarly petulant tone, "Your mother probably _would_ be proud. Mine certainly wouldn't be."

"Hey, whoever screwed who," you point out, "Your mother wouldn't be proud of either of us because all three of us screwed each other over. So don't pretend you're the victim here. You did more than your fair share of shitty things."

"I didn't betray anyone," he argues, "I didn't deliberately hurt anyone, I didn't do something that undermined years of friendship and trust for something as transitory as sex."

"You hurt her," you inform him pointedly, "Shit Derek, you have no idea. You were never around to notice but you hurt her, and yes, you did undermine years of friendship for something as transitory as _surgery_. I'm not going to say that I missed you like she did, but God," you throw your head against the wall in frustration; the smack is anticlimactic and ungratifying, "She missed you. She _loved_ you, a hell of a lot more and a hell of a lot better than you ever loved her."

He glowers.

You hold his eyes and glower back, because as far as you're concerned that's true and he should be made to face up to that fact.

"I loved her," he spits it at you, "Until that moment that I saw her with you I loved her and she was everything to me."

You say it angrily and without thinking; "Well I _love_ her. Still. And if the Queen of fucking England wanted rhinoplasty I'd tell her to fuck off if she was my wife."

"Do not," his tone is cold and sharp; it has a menacing edge to it and if he wasn't your oldest and only friend you would be a hell of a lot more concerned, "Presume to know things about _our_ marriage. Do not presume to understand why and what happened; and don't you dare tell me that I didn't love her."

"You didn't," you say quietly, in a voice that's not looking for a confrontation, "And she wasn't everything to you because at some point, you became more of a surgeon than a person."

He shakes his head and makes a fist against the desk before sighing in a concession of defeat because he knows you're right about that at least, "We all made mistakes."

You've always fought like this. You've known each other too long to be mad at each other for long. The anger is fleeting and throughout your lives you have rarely disagreed but in those times the arguments were brief but spectacular and over as soon as they began. It's not the same now. In the past it would be forgiven and forgotten in the first sentence spoken at a regular volume but now there's that vague idea that the anger you felt in the first place wasn't anger but just misinterpreted hurt. It's hard to forget and even harder to forgive him for it. You think he probably feels the same.

"Yeah," you echo quietly, "And I am sorry Derek; I do give a shit I just… can't believe that you had what you had and you let it come second to surgery."

"You can't tell me you don't understand that," he accuses in the same hushed voice, "You worked more sixteen hour days after you opened the practise than when you were working at the hospital."

You shrug; it's semi-true. Often you would perform back-to-back surgeries from 8am, consult with potential patients from mid-morning to late afternoon and then operate again on the professionals with day jobs which made up the majority of your clientele. A lot of your time was taken accommodating the needs of patients who couldn't stay in recovery overnight or a significant other would have to be informed about a procedure undertaken at the request of a lover, or those who couldn't miss a day of work at one high-rise or another. Still, it's par for the course in your field; everyone who wanted to be someone did it. You didn't have anyone to go home to anyway. No one was missing you.

"I didn't have anywhere else to be," you point out, "There was no one that valued my time much less someone I promised to share my life with."

"So you're saying you worked a lot to compensate for your shitty personal life which, as I recall, was never lacking in something leggy and usually blonde?" he sounds disbelieving and sardonic, "And that it had exactly nothing to do with the desire to be successful?"

"No," you roll your eyes just a little at him because he can be such a drama queen, "Obviously there were things I did to get ahead and keeping odd hours was one of them. But I didn't have to ask anyone else to put up with that."

"And you think that Addison didn't work a 48 hour week, that she wasn't on call three nights out of seven and that there weren't phone calls at 2am that disrupted the five hours of sleep I learnt to live on?" he exhales dramatically, "We're all doctors. We work a lot. It's in the job description."

You nod a little but shrug, looking ambivalent, "Yeah but now you're making excuses."

"And you loving her isn't an excuse?" he blinks at you, "And a smokescreen at the same time. Tactically very clever, that I will grant you."

"Do you really think that if it was just sex," you look at him resolutely, daring him to challenge you, determined to make him understand that his argument is a stupid one, "That I would have slept with Addison and not one of those unmarried, uncomplicated and usually anonymous leggy blondes? Don't get me wrong, Addison is easily one of the most attractive women I've ever known but shit Derek, do you really think that I would have done something that shitty and made things that complicated because of the sex that I could have got from any number of women," you smirk a little, "Possibly even more than one at the same time?"

"You sleep with a lot of women," he says neutrally, "Mostly because you can."

"She was different," you state simply because you know that he'll know exactly what you mean, there was always something about her that both of you noticed, "She was always different."

"When?" he asks in response.

You look at him, confused, "When what?"

"When did you start loving her?" he says tersely, "I mean did you always want her? Were you always thinking about her, the whole time we were together, did you always love her?"

You shrug, "I don't know."

"What kind of answer is that?" he snaps.

"An honest one," you retort, "I don't know when it changed. I … I mean she was your girlfriend Derek. Much in the same way I never bother with militant lesbians, I never bothered with your girlfriends."

"Oh please," he rolls his eyes at you, "You had Amy wrapped around your little finger for a month before I broke up with her."

"Because you were too busy lusting after Addison to show her the slightest scrap of attention," you tell him, unamused, "And since she was hanging around all the time, I was forced to talk to her. Believe me, that was not my fault. I was just there and you just weren't," you wrinkle your nose, "Thanks for that by the way. You could have just been a man about it and dumped your girlfriend instead of making me babysit her while you flirted with the hotter, smarter, better girl."

"Yeah and you could have remembered to call the hotter, smarter, better girl instead of losing her number," he teases, "So your loss, my gain."

You didn't forget to call her and you certainly didn't lose her number but you don't tell him that.

"Why does it always seem to work like that?" you sigh.

"How come I never knew?" he says after an introspective moment and a lull in the conversation, which is somewhat civil again though you can tell he's still angry about something.

"You know sometimes the telepathic connection doesn't work so well and you actually have to make sense," you mutter, waiting for him to elaborate since you know he will.

"How come you loved my wife and I never figured it out?" he repeats the question in more detail, "How come you never told me?"

You blink at him for a minute, "Are you seriously asking that question as though it's not rhetorical? I mean, I still have a faint scar from your wedding bands ploughing through my cheek you know."

"Yeah but," he taps his fist against the back of the chair thoughtfully, "I still should have known. I can always tell if you like a girl and I can always tell if you just want to fuck her so why didn't I figure it out?"

"Hell Derek, I had a lot of trouble figuring it out," you tell him, "And it wasn't something that I ever wanted either of you to know. You were my best friends; it just would have made things awkward."

"How long?" he mutters.

You shift your weight feeling slightly uncomfortable, "A while."

"A year? Two years? Five years?" he persists.

"Something like that?" you answer undecidedly, "Look Derek, it's not like we were sitting there on the floor of that crappy apartment and I was checking her out when you weren't looking ok? It's not like that and it was never like that. I didn't want to love her. She was your wife, you were my best friend, I hate relationships," you gesture hopelessly with your left hand, "So if you're feeling sick from the jealousy, don't bother. I wasn't about to let myself think about her, want her, or any of that shit."

"That's not why I asked," he says too quickly for you to believe him.

"Sure it's not," you tease, "That isn't the territorial urge to lift your leg and mark her as your own," you smirk a little, "You know, I don't think she'd approve somehow."

He looks unamused, "Shut up. I don't… I just… you loved her, you loved her for _years_ and you just what? Sucked it up? Ignored it? Pretended it didn't matter?"

"All of the above?" you look sheepish.

"I couldn't even pretend I didn't love Meredith for 12 months," he remarks, "How… if you loved her, I don't understand how you could have ignored it."

"You got blessed with the self-righteousness and blatant denial of important issues," you brush it off, "And I got all the intimacy issues. Loving anyone was never something I looked forward to; you've seen the movies and been to two of my mother's four weddings, you know it makes everything awkward in the long run. And loving Addison?" you sigh, "Complicated doesn't begin to cover it. Forgive me for not giggling about it like a girl and dying to share it with you like some big important secret. But don't say I didn't and don't say I don't. I did. I do. I will," you add, "No matter who she sleeps with."

"So if you hypothetically caught her sleeping with me after you'd been married for eleven years you wouldn't be the slightest bit pissed off?" his jaw tenses.

"You don't stop loving people because they sleep with your best friend Derek," you observe, since he wants to be philosophical about things, "Fuck, wouldn't life be easy if you did? And yes, I'd be pissed but I'd still love her. I wouldn't run across the country and hide in a trailer catching fish and dating a woman twelve years my junior. Why didn't you fight for her? Why didn't you stick it out? She loved you. She would have chosen you. I don't know why she was with me in the first place."

"It wasn't worth it," he admits flatly, "Or at least, at the time I didn't think it was worth it. If it was really truly what she wanted she never would have _thought_ about anyone else. And it was… so screwed up at that point, she was a stranger to me; a stranger who fucked my best friend. Why the hell would I want to fight for that?"

"Because," the answer is obvious to you; you don't understand his reasons, "You love her?"

"I loved her," he says sadly, "I loved her for a long time but it just… I wish it was different, I really do and I don't know when that became past tense. At the time I was just angry and hurt and getting away, making a clean break seemed like the only thing worth contemplating. Maybe I didn't love her enough to stay; I don't know. I did want to try, when she came out here I wanted it to be different, the way it was but," he trails off and shrugs, "She's just so familiar. There's nothing about her I don't know and it's comforting. Sometimes, with Meredith," he sighs, "It's new, it's different, the history is short and I don't know what to expect. And it was new and different and uncertain."

"So you stayed with Addison because she was the safe choice?" you hate him a little for that, and he can probably tell from the way you bite down on the inside of your lip to keep yourself from saying more.

"Yeah," he owns it quietly as though it's not something he's proud of, "But you know, at the time, I really thought it was what I wanted and that it was the right thing to do. It seems shitty now, if you're a hopeless romantic like you," he says this pointedly and you roll your eyes a little but he does have a point: ordinarily it wouldn't be something you'd notice, "But I had good intentions."

"The road to hell," you mutter.

He laughs wryly, "You're telling me."

"Derek," you begin, seriously, "You've got to forgive me for this. We," and normally it's his job to be the sap but you figure desperate times, desperate measures, or something like that, "We've known each other too long for you to be pissed about it forever."

"I'm not angry," he sighs, "I'm just… it hurts. I'm not angry, it just hurts and it's getting easier with time to appreciate and understand the difference."

"Yeah," you agree.

There is a long silence then, which is only broken by his similarly long sigh. A longer silence ensues. Finally he asks whatever he's been thinking about asking for the past five minutes, "Why did she do it? Why you?"

"If I knew," you admit, "I'd feel a lot less confused."

"Did she, I mean, in New York after I left, were you… was it… awkward? Was she happy? Did she ever say anything?"

"We didn't talk about much," you say, "And in general there was just a mutual, unspoken agreement that discussion of feelings, motives and actions was counterproductive and to be avoided at all costs. The only discussion she expressly forbade was that about the night you left. We never brought it up; she didn't want to talk about it."

"I'd like to believe that she did it for a reason," he professes in a voice barely above a whisper; you can tell that it hurts him to say it and you know that he's faintly embarrassed about being so emotional so you don't say anything, you just meet his eyes and wait for him to continue, "If she just wanted to make me jealous, if she just wanted me to pay attention to her, to make me realise that we were losing each other… why did it have to be you? I mean you loved her, I get that and it doesn't make it right but at least I can appreciate the reasons behind it... but she… if she didn't, if she was just trying to hurt me then, why you? How could she do that to me? How could she do that to you?"

"Yeah some days I think that too," you admit, "Some days I think that we both got screwed over."

"Serves us right," the side of his mouth curls upwards but the rest of his face doesn't reflect the slight smile, "For letting a woman come between us."

"You always broke your promises," you tell him, "I didn't take it personally."

"And ever the diplomat you could never actually be talked into making a proper promise," he recollects wistfully, "But you see my point regardless."

"Yeah," you sigh, "I don't want to hate her for it but sometimes I think everything would have been that much easier if we never met her."

"I never would have said this," he tells you, "Until now, I never would have said it but I can understand that sentiment."

"Women still make no sense," you lament, "Why does that never change? We're older, somewhat embittered and even more cynical than we were so when is the wisdom going to kick in?"

"Too late to be of any use obviously," he remarks dryly.

You smile faintly, "That irony thing again."

"You know I'm so much angrier at her than I was," he reflects emotionlessly, "I really truly hated you both for a while, but when she came to Seattle I started to realise that wasn't true, that part of me still loved her and probably will always love her in that way that you love people you've known for fifteen years of your life. So I blamed it all on you; she never told me exactly what happened and so I always assumed that she wasn't thinking clearly and that you just… took advantage of that because that wouldn't be unlike you. I've seen you with more drunk women than I can remember and," he sighs, "Look, I'm sorry about that. Because maybe it was always more her fault than I was willing to admit because it hurt a lot. You know, when you do something shitty and you hurt me I just get angry about it. It's how we work. And anger is so much easier to process than hurt."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," you say, "It's not her fault Derek, and maybe her intentions weren't entirely honourable but intentions never really are if people are honest. We're all to blame."

"Equally liable," he murmurs, "That's what she said. She said we were equally liable but … I loved Meredith Mark. I still love her. I only did what I did because I was in love with her. And I know I hurt Addison but not because I wanted to; you can't help how you feel sometimes and it was only feelings; that time at prom was the first and only time I ever cheated on her. So explain to me how we're equally liable. Explain to me how she can sleep with you and tell me if was just because you were there, because that's all she said, and then fly out here the minute it didn't work out. Explain to me how she can call you out here as soon as our marriage is over and then… do whatever the hell she's doing with you. And explain to me how that makes us equally liable."

"I don't know Derek," you swallow and consider your next words carefully, "She never loved me like you love Meredith but that doesn't mean that she intended it to hurt you. Sometimes I think she assumes that other people don't care about her," you look down at the sheets and feel a little stupid about getting this analytical, but she did tell you once that she still feels like the kid in high school that wasn't well-liked or even disliked, she was just the one that no one ever noticed and apathy is so much worse than intense feeling at either end of the spectrum; "I don't think she expects her actions to have much impact on other people."

"That's an excuse," he points out, "And a convenient one too."

"Maybe so, but I think that's genuinely how she feels Derek," you shrug, "She was that girl drinking alone in the corner you know? The one that didn't realise we'd even noticed her until I spoke to her and the one that was immediately suspicious of my intentions because she was used to people making fun of her."

"And I thought I left first-year psyche behind me," he groans.

"It's one of those things that never leave you," you sympathise, "Like the complete lack of appetite that always follows a passing mention of formaldehyde."

He grins, "It's truly one of the most disgusting smells on earth."

"Right up there with sebaceous cysts," you agree.

He wrinkles his nose at you, "You're bringing back incredibly traumatic memories."

"Hey I _told_ you to be careful with the forceps and not to squeeze too hard."

"Yeah but you made me do it," he recalls, "Naturally. You were never one to do the dirty work."

"I chatted up each and every one of your five college girlfriends because you were either too embarrassingly inebriated or shy to do it yourself," you remind him, "You _owed_me."

"That settled the score," he declares resolutely, "I still have nightmares."

"Speaking of nightmares," you glance at the clock on the nightstand, "Don't you have a full afternoon and 12 hours on call?"

He groans again, "Yeah, I'd better get going."

"Yeah," you echo and you both sit their awkwardly for a few moments because you've never been good at goodbyes, even of the temporary kind. They're always awkward, strained and generally abrupt because the flow of conversation is so easy that any halt feels like a dramatic change.

"I'll see you," you say as he stands and stretches his arms over his head.

"Yeah," he responds, "I'll come round tomorrow morning and bring coffee. I figure by that point, the caffeine withdrawal will outweigh the nausea."

You grin, "Yeah. Definitely."

He opens the door and is halfway into the corridor when you call out as an afterthought, "Don't be too hard on Addison."

He turns full circle and eyes you for several moments, trying to decide whether to find this amusing or take it seriously.

Finally he says, "I won't."

You nod in silent appreciation, "Thanks."

He nods back a little, "You're welcome."

And then the door closes less dramatically than it ever has before, probably because things seem less dramatic and more on par with the pre-Seattle reality you're still accustomed to. You stare at the ceiling for a while and try to ignore the mathematical reflections on the latest developments in the interpersonal triangle dynamics. There are three sides and 180°. It follows that if you and Derek are closer now, Addison must be further away. And speaking as someone who's been that distant apex before, it's not something you'd wish on anyone much less her. You've always hated triangle geometry and maybe that's why.


	7. Two Important Lessons &Practical Anatomy

Author's Notes: This one has the sex in it. Just, you know, in case you wanted to read between your fingers as you cover your eyes. You can skip to the last few paragraphs if you wish.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Two Important Lessons And The Finer Applications Of Anatomy.**

It is four weeks after you meet her and her number is still taped beside the phone in the apartment you share with Derek. You have seen her in several classes since, and on occasion you offer her a greeting but you continually put off calling her. You told Derek to ask her out, but he's _still_with Amy and so this evening you finally decided it would be polite to call her. She was horribly surprised when you did, and now you've somehow been invited to her place because she's 'studying right now' (which is what her machine said before you smirked and started to leave a message and she picked up). While it's not what you'd ordinarily suggest, you really don't have it in you to argue, especially since she chided you for taking so long to call her. It was too complicated to explain why, so you just told her you'd see her in ten minutes and now you're standing in front of her door, feeling stupid, and waiting for her to answer.

She smiles at you when she finally opens the door, allowing you to step through the doorway and into the small apartment.

"Hey," she smiles, her hair falling around her face.

Your hand brushes against hers as you tuck it behind her ears automatically.

She looks a little embarrassed and twists the strands around her hands nervously.

"Hi," you respond.

"Well I um," she claps her hands together and leads you down the hallway, past her roommate's bedroom, who is noticeably absent, "Was just going over some of my notes and I figured… since it's Wednesday and all."

"Microbiology and genetics early am," you smirk at her and she shakes her head, "One day, one day I'm going to find out how you both managed to figure out my schedule without evening knowing my name."

She pushes open the door to her room and ushers you inside, slapping your arm when you smile smugly and say, "Straight to the bedroom? You don't waste any time."

She is obviously in the middle of studying; her notes are spread around a central patch of cream carpet and her anatomy text is open on her desk. Other than this mess, the room is painfully tidy. Her bed is properly made, and aside from a framed photograph of her family on her desk and large collection of books, nothing personal disrupts the cleanliness.

"Should have known you'd be a neat freak," you tease, sinking down on her bed.

She resumes her position in the middle of the wads of paper.

"Here," she thrusts a pile of papers in your direction without responding, "The first lecture. I guess you'd better start there."

"How judgemental of you," you try to look wounded as you flop back against her pillows, "How do you know I'm not a model student?"

She rolls her eyes, "Who are you trying to fool? You couldn't remember to call me for a month."

"I've seen you since then," you defend yourself, "What's the point in calling when you can walk up and say hello?"

She smiles, "I told you that you'd forget."

"I didn't forget," you insist.

"Oh really?" one eyebrow quirks above the tortoiseshell frames.

"I remembered," you tell her, "I just… didn't call you."

"Well I'm sure to be less affronted by this honest admission as opposed to the idea that you just forgot," she informs you sarcastically.

"I wasn't sure you actually wanted me to call," you shrug, "And then there's the fact that you have a _thing_for Derek."

"I do _not_have a thing for Derek," but her ears turn pink so you don't really believe her.

"Sure you don't," you roll your eyes.

"He's got a girlfriend," she counters defensively.

"But you like him," you assert confidently, "It's ok, while there is sometimes a direct correlation between his relationship status and his likeability, you haven't known him long enough to notice the trend. The point is: you can like him; I won't be offended."

"How do you know," she crawls over to the side of the bed on her knees and pokes you in the shoulder, "That I don't like _you_?"

"That's what Derek says to me," you groan, "And like I tell him, I just _know_these things."

She leans closer to your mouth and smiles, "Sure you do."

You blink at her for several seconds and you both inhale and exhale slightly out of time, disturbing the carbon dioxide-oxygen equilibrium in your lungs. Henry's Law, you think as your breathing quickens: the concentration of gas dissolved in a liquid is directly proportional to the partial pressure of the gas above the liquid. By increasing the concentration of carbon dioxide in the inhaled air you effectively increase the concentration of carbon dioxide in the blood therefore you have to breathe faster to maintain the equilibrium situation. It has everything to do with biochemistry and nothing to do with her proximity.

She smiles even more widely and pulls backwards, resting her elbows on the edge of her bed and resting her head on her folded hands, "You know, I think you like me."

You snort, "And you base this assumption on an automatic physiological response?"

"No," she counters, tilting her head to one side and causing her hair to slide back and forth as it momentarily imitates a pendulum. You watch, analysing the simple harmonic motion (tension is equal to mg cos theta) and wait for her to continue, the lilt in her voice matching the oscillation of her red curls, "I base this assumption on the fact that you didn't kiss me."

You smirk, "You don't strike me as the kind of girl that invites a guy over with the objective of being kissed."

She smirks back, "And you don't strike me as the kind of guy that lets that get in his way very often. You're the … charming one, if I recall correctly."

"And you're the smart, feisty one who wouldn't hesitate to slap me into next week if I pulled anything stupid," you shrug, "So I'm protecting my own interests. Your theory is based on a flawed assumption."

She shakes her head and laughs lightly, "Not so fast mister. At least give me a chance to explain the theory before you dismiss it as flawed."

"Ah, but mathematically," you point out, "Nay logically, if the theory is based on a flawed assumption, the theory itself cannot be correct."

"I agree, mathematically speaking," she says, "But from a _scientific_ perspective, that is, in a more practical, less theoretical sense, trends in data can be observable in an experiment _before_they are explained theoretically. Planck's constant for example," she shrugs, "His assumption was wrong but his findings were correct. So hear me out."

"Physics?" you raise an eyebrow at her, "I thought you were a pre-med."

"I was," she shrugs, "I took an extra class. Besides, I could ask you the same question. Mathematical proofs?"

"My professor said I would be insane to enrol in the life sciences statistics class," you tell her, "So somehow I ended up in advanced chaos and number theory with the math majors. Speaking of which, do share your hypothesis with the class."

"I think you approach girls in two different ways," she is more than happy to oblige, "On the one hand, they're sex objects and on the other," she holds out her hands in opposing directions, net displacement of zero, "They're people. Now, a lot of the time your preoccupation with sex and women leads people to assume that you have no respect for women or, another, sometimes co-existing error, that you like these girls and have trouble expressing these feelings," she holds up a hand when you move to speak, "Let me finish. Now, I think that you actually genuinely like girls sometimes, and they fall into the category of 'people'. I think that most, if not all, of the girls you sleep with fall into category of 'sex object' and you don't really care about them much. You don't like to get the approaches confused and some part of you is afraid of sleeping with a girl you like but," she shrugs, "You like me and so you didn't kiss me."

"You're sure of that?" you tease, considering the idea briefly and deciding it is partly correct, but too simple to describe the complexity of the whole; there are far too many exceptions to consider it a rule.

She looks at you, "Admit it, my theory has merit."

You twist sideways a little and grin at her, "Maybe. But I'd say there are exceptions to every rule. And you're the kind of girl that's used to being exceptional."

She blushes a little, "Oh really?"

"Oh yes," you nod towards the sprawl of paper blanketing her carpet, "It's written all over your floor and I can tell you've read the textbooks when you talk."

"So I'm an exception because you don't do smart girls?" she raises an eyebrow at you and sounds disapproving despite the amused twist of her mouth. She pulls backwards slightly though and you can tell she's nervous, despite the projection of confidence.

"That's not what I said," you smirk at her, "According to your theory, most smart girls would probably have to fall into the category of 'people' despite their physical attractiveness though."

She nods speechlessly, because you're speaking inches from her lips, pointedly leaning in far too close and you watch her reaction intently because you're curious about her. She's interesting and intelligent and far too analytical for her own good. There's something more attractive about that than the rest of her, which is (you look her up and down briefly) not at all bad.

She shifts her weight nervously from one knee to the other and is about to speak when you interject, reaching for her arm and holding her in position as she tries to wriggle away.

"The inherent flaw in your logic is that it's entirely digital," you tell her and there's a part of you that likens the sensation to the attraction between opposite magnetic poles or electrostatic charge, "The only output is 1 or 0. Life is rarely that simple."

"True," she whispers as you brush your fingers against the inside of her wrist lightly, curling your hand around the soft skin and absently measuring her pulse. She is still for a moment, though her heart rate is outside normal resting rate. You try not to stare at her, but you're waiting for a reaction and she is staring back besides, the hint of a challenge in her eyes. The silent stand off continues, the experimental proof of her theory versus yours waiting to happen until finally, she leans forward ever so slightly. You just sit there, smiling smugly because you were right: she wants to be kissed. She's testing you too though, so you don't move, you just wait. And after a minute she looks faintly embarrassed, pressing her lips together and pulling backwards so you tighten your grip on her wrist, forces equal but opposite, and press your lips to hers gently, experimentally, to see how she responds.

Her eyes widen a little at first, but then she's kissing you back, shyly, giggling nervously until you reach out with your free hand to draw her closer until it's tongues against tongues and quiet sucking noises. She makes a noise somewhere between a moan and a sigh, her breath extending in all directions across your face and hers from the sides of your mouths. You pull backwards and pat the side of her hair back into position because you have twisted it into an oddly angled mess and she breathes heavily, eyes still closed, until you tap her chin and speak, ruining the silence.

"I like you," you inform her presently, "And I kissed you. So that's one from Column A, one from Column B and an exception to the rule."

She eyes you in that frowning-upon-but-amused-in-spite-of-herself way and disengages her hand, sitting back against her ankles.

"You did that just to prove me wrong," she accuses.

"Maybe," you shrug, deciding to change the subject before she pursues that line of questioning too far: much better to let her think you're not interested for any number of very good reasons; "So, you just happened be studying anatomy when I called?"

She rolls her eyes and edges back towards a specific pile of notes, "Yes actually, so save the lewd remarks: we've got a lab class for the practical and I for one only dissect dead people at this early stage in my career."

You lean back against her pillows and raise her notes in front of your face, bringing the neat loops of her perfectly aligned handwriting into focus, "Relax, I was merely alluding to med school's greatest cliché," you look at over her notes briefly, noting her colour-coded glossary of anatomical terms, a neat list of prefixes and suffixes and general introductory notes, "And you actually _went_to the first lecture? It was in the university's published lecture notes that it was going to be an introduction."

"I like to keep my attendance up at the beginning of semester," she leans forward on her hands to investigate the contents of the pile of paper furthest from her and you raise an eyebrow at the image, sticking your head out from behind the wad of paper you're perusing and smirking. She turns to meet your eyes and tosses her hair over her shoulder, "Oh grow up."

Smiling sweetly you say, "Second lecture please? I went to that one; we started doing the head and neck, which is stupid because we have to do neuroanatomy last and it would obviously make more sense to start at the bottom and work up, systematically but what would I know? Obviously Professor Lyndes has a Ph.D. and therefore a valid point."

She blinks at you, "That's exactly what I thought."

"Yes, because that's the only logical thought," you gesture towards the text open on her desk, "That's how the book does it, it starts with general information about tissues and structures and does embryology, which would prepare us for the histology elective next semester but of course, who needs complementary material across disciplines? Anyway, I remember that lecture. Lyndie finally called on me to get Derek and I to shut up and you looked so pissed that I knew the answer."

"After he repeated the question," she adds, sounding thoroughly irritated, "And it was annoying. Some of us actually pay attention and then you just sit up the back, acting like an idiot, and yet you _still_get it right."

"Lighten up Miss Addison," you smile smugly, "If you must know, I spent the first week of 'introductory' classes reading the text."

She sits upright, "Really?"

"Yeah," you shrug, "I like it. There's a lot of rote learning which I hate but it's interesting. Still, physiology is better."

She shuffles closer and sits cross-legged beside the bed, looking genuinely interested in the academic side of this conversation and not much else, "Why do you say that?"

You shrug, "I've always been more concerned with how and why rather than what."

"Hence the advanced theoretical math classes?" she raises an eyebrow at you, "Now, if anything was concerned with whats rather than hows and whys it's math."

"Unfair and uneducated assumption," you say, "All of science is explained by math and all of math has applications in science. They're a complementary whole; two different approaches to the same problem which is explaining how and why our universe is as it is. And physiology takes the concepts of anatomy and expands on them. Plus we get to perform experiments on live cats."

"Ew," she wrinkles her nose, "That's disgusting but," she pauses, "Kind of awesome. Which experiment is that? It's not in this semester's lab manual."

"Because we do it next semester," you tell her, "So says word on the street from my faithful fourth year friends in the West Wing computer lab during compulsory Psyche Tuesdays."

She shakes her head, "You've skipped compulsory psyche? You've missed three lectures of type theory. We're doing Jung and Myer-Briggs."

"Yeah," you wrinkle your nose sounding more thrilled than remorseful, "Mores the pity. I'll actually have to go next week."

"Hey wait a minute," she looks up at you, "Are you in _my_psyche class?"

"Probably," you shrug, "After lunch?"

"Yeah," she narrows her eyes at you, "And I've never, ever seen you there."

"Because I've never, ever actually been," you explain impatiently, "If it wasn't compulsory, I wouldn't bother going at all since psyche is stupid… but can I borrow your notes? These are really detailed," you hold up her anatomy notes and smile, "I particularly love the scented markers in all different colours."

"Shut up," she swipes them from your hand and turns an interesting shade of pink, "They're… cute."

"Sure they are," you twist on your side to look down at her, "I noticed you didn't sketch any of our dissections though."

She twists her hair around her fingers and laughs a little, "You should see me trying to draw. It's like revenge of the third grade-style stick figures."

"I brought mine over if you want to have a look," you reach out beside you for the wad of disorganised paper and place it in her waiting hands, "I mean, they're nothing special, I just scribbled them down instead of taking notes in lectures because it's far more interesting to look at them than listen to what the old guy is rambling on about up there."

She snorts when you call Unhinged Lyndie 'the old guy' and shakes her head before positioning the sketches in her lap and slowly pouring over each one.

"These are," she looks over them with wonderment lifting the muscles in her face, "Really good Mark. I mean, _really_good. You should… I don't know, illustrate a text or something."

You laugh, "Maybe if you write it."

She rolls her eyes, "My notes are just a summarised version of the text with a few of Lyndes' more witty witticisms thrown in."

"No need to be modest," you tease, "You cut through five pages of bullshit on teeth that belong in a dentistry text and summarised it neatly in ten bullet points."

"So you're saying we could write a text and call it Montgomery-Sloane's Selective Anatomy?"

"The textbook without the extraneous crap disguised as minute detail," you grin at her, "Exactly."

"You don't mind if I borrow these do you?" she holds up your sketches and you shake your head at her, "Like I said: I was just messing around in the lab."

She shuffles a pile of paper around and stands carefully, picking her way across the floor to place the newly acquired sketches next to her text on the desk before returning to the bedside to prod you in the shoulder until you make room for her on the mattress. Regarding her curiously, you hope to God none of the less appropriate thoughts that cross your mind show on your face.

She laughs at your clueless expression, spreading her notes across her lap and your knees, "We should probably actually study, or I'll get behind. You don't mind do you?"

You shrug, "Beats a crappy Meg Ryan movie."

"I know I'm a little neurotic about this stuff," she sighs and leans back against her wall, "And I study a lot so I'm not the best company but I… I'm not a complete nerd or anything, despite what some people might have said. I'm just focussed."

"Hey, if you love what you're studying then," you reach out and slide your hand along her arm because her teeth are burrowing into her lip and she looks worried about your reaction, "One couldn't fault you for being a complete nerd."

"You just don't seem like the kind of guy who would," she pauses shyly, "Well you know, appreciate that. I mean, obviously you're smart but you know, if you met me five years ago you would have laughed at me."

"Your jokes are still funny now," you tease her, watching as she sits upright and glances over the notes in front of her.

She shoots you a look at that, one that implies your jokes aren't, "You probably still do laugh at people like me because you're that jackass that just shows up to the exam and effortlessly does well. You never have to try for anything. Girls sleep with you if you so much as smile at them, professors love you because you've got so much natural ability, mothers want you to marry their daughters because you can be so charming when it suits you and people like you because you're unaffected, you just don't care about anything and nothing fazes you," she pauses and tucks her hair behind her ears, "How close am I?"

You look thoughtful for a second, "Well most mothers hate me because I've somehow managed to break their daughters' heart after a brief liaison with little to do with love and some professors also hate me because I waste said ability on nothing in particular mostly because I'm afraid of failing so I don't bother to try, but otherwise you did well."

She stares at her hands, twisting them nervously against her notes, folding and unfolding the corner of the page repeatedly, "Well you probably laugh at people like me anyway; you probably think that I only do well because I work hard and study all the time."

"No," you nudge her with your elbow, "I think that you're smart Addison Montgomery, genuinely smart… you're just also a perfectionist so you do far more studying than you need to."

"I just _have_to get good grades," she explains, "My dad… he's… he's a surgeon and I've always wanted to follow in his footsteps which probably sounds stupid but," she stops abruptly and raises her hand to her mouth, "I'm sorry, you probably don't care about any of this."

You pull her arm away from her mouth and squeeze at her elbow, "No, by all means. You want to be a surgeon?"

"Yeah," she says, "You know, you're the only person that hasn't laughed when I said that."

You laugh a little at that, "Well, I might have once but Marie Louise Thiele kicked my ass in tenth grade biology and after the initial blow to my ego, I've had a little more respect for what women are capable of. Besides, who am I to judge? I'm the jackass that hasn't been to psyche lecture. And I have to avoid the Dean because I missed that compulsory hand-holding, shoulder patting class we all have to take once and he still hasn't found me in order lay into me for it."

She smirks in amused disbelief, "You cut perspectives on the practise of medicine?"

"Maybe," you grin sheepishly, "Oh come on, it's boring."

"I think it's interesting," she sniffs, "The debates are fun."

"Social issues, not medical issues," you counter.

"Social issues approached from a medical perspective," she argues, "Fundamentally important discussions for the profession since any social change will greatly impact on how doctors practise medicine. Surely even you see the benefits in exploring these topics in some depth: if social trends are based on ignorance then our ability to help people as doctors is compromised."

"Eloquent argument," you wave her off, "But I care more about facial anatomy than about the warm fuzzy side of medicine."

"We all want to help people," she insists, but picks up her notes and looks at them more studiously in any case, "Otherwise there's no way you'd put yourself through four years of colleges, the MCAT and four years of med school."

"No," you say, "I was just curious."

"Curious?" she looks up over her glasses.

"Yeah," you repeat, "Curious. I wanted to know how it all worked and how to keep it all working or at least, how to fix it when it breaks. Helping people is a benefit, a perk, but it's not the only reason or even the best reason to become a doctor. If you get too involved with your patients you're going to end up very bitter very quickly."

She shakes her head, "So you're saying that the reason you're studying medicine is basically because you can?"

You shrug, "Derek and I have wanted to do it since we were kids and after college, he was sure it was what he wanted. I was pretty sure I didn't like my employment options at that point or the idea of leaving school for the big wide adult world. University is a nicely sheltered academic existence and I like that."

She raises an eyebrow, "So that's the reason why you're studying medicine?"

"Why not is sometimes just as good a question as why," you point out, "And I had no good reason not to. I'm not saying I don't admire your noble intentions," you shrug, "I just don't share them in exactly the same way. I do want to help people; I just … think there's more to it than the glamorous notion of saving lives."

"I don't think it's glamorous," she counters, "You're twisting my words."

"Everyone thinks it's glamorous," you quip, plucking the page from her hands and looking over it, "But I'll agree to disagree and actually study for the sake of maintaining the peace. I get the feeling this is just a fundamental difference in viewpoint. You're idealistic, I'm cynical."

"I am _not_idealistic," she huffs, folding her arms.

You look at the paper in front of you, "Come on, I'll ask a question, you answer. The palate is the roof of the mouth, hard palate is the hard part at the top, soft is the soft part at the back, in case you couldn't figure it out, please ignore my sarcasm but this is quite condescending… so, ok, hard palate consists of?"

She raises an eyebrow at you, "Premaxilla, maxilla and palatine bones. Maxillae join across the premaxilla in humans, distinguishing us from all other mammals. The suture between the structures lies along the incisor teeth. The main mass of the hard palate is made by the palatal processes of the maxillae; posteriorly the horizontal plates of the palatine bones complete the bony shelf."

"Ok Miss Textbook, what's it mean?" you challenge her.

She sniffs, "The maxilla overlays the premaxillae which is," she opens her mouth and points to her hard palate just behind her teeth; her voice is thus garbled as she says, "Tha' one," she pulls her hand from her mouth, "And the join between them in along the teeth here. And the palatine bones make up the hard part at the back. Simple enough for you?"

"Fine, your turn," you hand her the wad of paper and shrug, "Ask a question."

"Nerve supply to the hard palate?" she smiles wickedly, "There's no way you remember all these names."

"Sure there is," you counter, "The anterior palatine nerve which is a branch of the maxillary nerve via the pterygo-palatine ganglion."

"And in the area of the premaxilla?" she smiles sweetly.

You just look at her, "Oh come on. Be nice."

"No, what's the answer?" she smirks.

"It's from the same source," you say, "I just… can't remember the name."

"Two," she gives you a hint.

"You can quit gloating now," you inform her.

"The naso-palatine nerves," she looks at you as though this is common knowledge and you grin at her a little, "You nerd."

She actually smiles back, "And you tried to tell me you were a model student."

"I did not," you argue, "I merely pointed out that you were making unfair assumptions," you wrench the notes from her fingers and glance over them, smirking up at her, "Oh look, we're up to the tongue."

She lets her shoulder brush against yours and laughs quietly, "I thought I told you we had lab classes for practicals."

"We do," you shrug, "But don't try to pretend you're not thinking about it; you're the one who skipped over blood supply to the hard palate."

"Greater palatine artery, emerges from the greater palatine foramen and passes around the palate lateral to the nerve to enter the incisive foramen and pass up into the nose. You want me to tell you about the veins as well?" she rolls her eyes, "Because they accompany the artery back to the pterygoid plexus."

"You were thinking about it," you wager, watching in amusement as she swallows and shakes her head just slightly.

"It's my turn," she declares resolutely, regaining her composure, "To ask you a question."

"Ask away," you challenge, your tone echoing your smile, "But if I get it right, you have to kiss me."

"That is not why I invited you over," she protests weakly.

"Then why did you?" you respond immediately, because she walked into that one.

"Because I..." she falters for a second, "I don't know, you… I… we…" she sighs, "Because I did. Like you decided to go to med school, I had no reason not to. Why did you say you'd come?"

"Because," you tell her outright, "You're interesting."

She smiles wryly, but the choice of words obviously appeals to some part of her because she leans a little closer, rests her shoulder against yours, "Interesting?"

"The other night at the party," you begin, "You were easily the hottest girl in the room, yet you were hiding in the corner all on your own. Why?"

"I don't know," she shrugs a little, "My friend Sav was off with her boyfriend somewhere and I hate being the third wheel?"

"And when I talked to you, you misinterpreted my intentions."

"I did not," she exclaims open-mouthed, "You said just now that the only reason you talked to me was because you liked the way I looked."

"Who's twisting whose words?" you respond good-naturedly, "I said you were interesting. You're hot and you're smart and you're funny as well. But you're interesting. So, why do you always assume the guy is hitting on you since by your own admission, you're more likely to be studying than reciprocating his interest?"

"Because," she shrugs, "Why else would you talk to me? You didn't know me and no one introduced us, so it had to be the way I look."

"But I did know you," you point out, "We have a similar timetable. I had a pretty good reason to talk to you and for all you knew it could have been entirely unrelated to your favourable physical characteristics."

"I know but I," she wriggles around uncomfortably and sighs again, "You're the kind of guy that… immediately, I'm going to wary of your intentions because you're so sure of yourself or at least you pretend to be and I'm still not quite sure how much is an act and how much is honest arrogance."

"So why'd you flirt back?" you smirk at her, "And why do you get shy if I actually make a move? It's like before, you wanted me to kiss you but when I did, you withdrew entirely."

"I don't want to be that girl," she swallows and looks up at you, "I don't want to be the girl that guys like you sleep with because she's stupid enough to be fooled by the charm. You're … smart and you're all right, underneath all that bad boy crap so whatever you say, I _like_you and I'm…" she pauses awkwardly, "Attracted to you so I'm not going to let myself be the girl you screw because you can."

"You say that as though I would lose all interest in you if you did," you tell her, "Which isn't true or as if I'm interested in the first place, which may or may not be true."

"You're infuriating," she blinks at you, "That is so ambiguous that I have exactly no idea what your intentions are."

You slip your fingers through the ends of her hair and let them slide forward along her jaw, "Mandible, consisting of a body that holds the teeth and a?"

She looks even more confused, but mumbles the answer instinctively, "Ramus which is for the insertion of jaw-moving muscl-"

You tilt her face upward and pull her mouth to yours, cutting her off mid-sentence. You're not really sure why you do this kind of thing, because you can, because you're here and she's there and she's hot and maybe, just maybe because you're attracted to her on so many levels; she's quick-tempered and quick-witted, intellectual, physically appealing but sexy in ways women usually aren't. And you're probably ruining any chance you'd have with her but you're an idiot and she's pressing her hand against the inside of your thigh so you kiss her harder, let your hand tangle in her hair and reach out with the other to help her clamber into your lap, her body sinking neatly around yours as her tongue does something similar in your mouth.

She pulls backwards and you lean against her pillows, rearranging the hair at the side of her face as you both breathe and stare at each other. You're in your element now, since physically things with women are so much easier than the more complicated emotion-related things. A girl might be interested, but in what exactly? At least if it's sex you know what to expect. There's a concrete and defined set of parameters.

Her mouth is open expressionlessly as she breathes heavily but after a few seconds she smiles, shyly and tucks her hair behind her ears again, trying to shuffle sideways but you put your hand on her hip and hold her in position, sliding your fingers against the soft fabric of her shirt.

"Clear things up?" you ask, teasing but reassuring because you can tell that she's shy about this sort of thing.

She reaches for your hands and tugs them away from her body, sliding her fingers through yours and leaning forward until your foreheads touch, "So you want to screw me?"

"You make it sound like there's nothing in it for you," you smile a little at her dry tone, "And yes, I want to screw you, most guys probably do because you're an attractive girl, the hottest girl in the room most of the time. Just because I'm honest about it doesn't mean I don't … like you. To most guys, sex is sex. That's all it is and just because it doesn't necessarily mean more than that doesn't automatically mean I don't like you or respect you or value your ideas and opinions."

"I," she squirms a little above you, which has unfortunate consequences in the places her body is pressed against yours, "I didn't say that I just… I'm not… I don't usually…"

You hold a finger to her lips, bringing your entwined hands up between your faces since she's still gripping at your palms tightly, "Yeah, usually you're not that kind of girl, ok, I get it and I… don't care if you don't want to. I didn't say I'd come over because I thought I'd get lucky and if you're uncomfortable then whatever, we can study or talk or I can go but if you do want to but you just 'don't usually'," you quote her words and she looks a little embarrassed, "Because you're shy or you're nervous or insecure then you shouldn't be. And I'm not saying it should mean nothing because it doesn't, but at the same time, it's physical, it's attraction and physiological response to stimuli so," you pull at her hands, resting them on your shoulders, "It doesn't have to mean _everything_. It doesn't make you a slut if you physically enjoy sex without some life-altering emotional connection."

"Ok," she whispers, pressing her mouth against yours quickly, "But I don't do this a lot and I… is it ok if we stop if I change my mind because," she swallows uneasily, "I do_want_to I just don't know if I can."

"You're really nervous," you observe as she reaches up to adjust her clothing. Her hands tremble slightly and you can see her intently concentrating on keeping them still. Within a few seconds they're as steady as ever and she moves her fingers deftly across the fabric of her shirt, smoothing the wrinkles and tugging it down to cover her stomach again.

"I've practised," she explains hurriedly when she catches your curious stare, "Because I figure during surgery I'm going to be really nervous, at least at first so I have to be able to hold my hands still."

You smile at her, "Yeah of course."

"I can write with both hands too," she adds proudly, "I learnt over the summer."

"I've always been sort of ambidextrous," you let your hands meet hers against her clothes, "As a kid I had to make sure I did things with both hands pretty equally."

"There you go again," she teases, relaxing a little and leaning forward against your hands to speak above your mouth, "Effortlessly achieving what some of us had to learn."

"Some things don't come effortlessly to me," you tell her, "It's just easier to pretend that they do."

"What exactly do you find difficult?" she shivers a little as you slip your hands beneath the wool and brush your fingers against the warmth of her skin, "We've already established that you're effortlessly brilliant, ambidextrous and alarmingly comfortable on a girl's bed."

"That came with practise," you tell her, grinning.

"I'm sure it did," she brushes her nose against yours, "So what, pray tell is so hard for you, lewd jokes aside?"

"Well," you pause, contemplating whether to be seriously candid or crack a joke, "I suck at relating to people. That takes time and effort."

She laughs softly, her body moving against yours, "You relate to people quite well, in my limited experience."

"Yeah but for every one I relate to, there are five that I piss off," you shrug, leaning forward to tug at her bottom lip with your own. She gently kisses back for a while, her hands curling around your arms and her fingernails digging into your skin uncomfortably for several seconds as she tenses. You're about to pull backwards and tell her it's ok when her hands loosen their grip and she opens her mouth against yours, smiling into the kiss and you feel a silent giggle making her stomach shake. It's obviously a small victory for her so you wait for her to sit upright and smile, "Addison?"

"Yes?" she says quietly.

"We can stop," you tap at her nose, "Just tell me and it's ok."

"I'm sorry I'm so weird about this," she mumbles, sounding disappointed with herself all over again, "I just… it'd be the first time with a stranger really and I'm still not really sure of myself with this kind of thing so, promise you won't laugh at me?" she pouts a little and you do laugh at that, "Why would I laugh at you?"

She slaps your shoulder, "I don't know, because I'm still a little dorky and awkward sometimes?"

"Hey, nothing about you is awkward," your hands explore the curve of her body quite thoroughly, "And you're not weird about it, it's just a little new to you."

"Yeah but it was new for most people at sixteen," she points out, raising an eyebrow.

"So whatever," you reach beneath her shirt and unclasp her bra, earning a surprised yelp, "At sixteen, most people _are_awkward. Trust me: you probably saved yourself some traumatic memories."

She laughs a little so you kiss her again and soon you're cupping her breasts inside two layers of fabric, her tongue is tracing the edge of your premaxilla and she's giggling because her attempts at naming the structures are decidedly garbled by her tongue in your mouth and your lips against hers. She is looking at you with one eye open, her elbow folded behind your neck, and you're smirking at her because she is _such_a nerd and it's completely hot, when the door to her room opens and she scrambles backwards a little in surprise, not quite succeeding in removing herself from your lap when her roommate sticks her head through the door.

"Addie… oh," is all she says before she pulls the door shut with a peal of laugher, "I'm sorry hon; I didn't know you had company. I'll just go… and… not think about what I just saw."

"Sav," Addison calls out, "It's not… it's just… I didn't…"

"Oh hon," more laughter from outside, "It's ok, it's ok, don't freak out on me here I'm just," she giggles, "Surprised, but in a good way."

"Well this is Mark," she yells through the door, "Ok?"

"Yeah ok," is the teasing response from the corridor and the door opens a fraction of an inch, "I was just going to ask if you wanted to get a pizza and some cheap vodka but I'll just… go and …" she bursts into a fit of giggles again, "Call Weiss or something. Nice to um, meet you, Mark. You just keep doing what you're doing Ad, I'll be pointedly ignoring your shrieks of pleasure in the next room."

She looks at you, thoroughly mortified and says, "That's Savvy, my best friend and roomie and ohmyGod, I am never, ever going to hear the end of this."

You sigh and lean back against the pillows. They smell of clean and vaguely like her hair; you shift a little beneath her and wait for her to speak again.

Finally she rests her elbows beside your body and her chin against your chest, "Sorry about that, she can be a little uncouth sometimes."

You shrug, "It's ok. You don't want me to … I mean, we can go eat with her if you want?"

"I'm not hungry," she declares softly, and makes a face, "For pizza anyway."

"What are you hungry for?" you raise an eyebrow at her and she laughs, shaking her head.

"So about that anatomy of the mouth," she grins, sidling up until her hands are resting either side of your face against the covers, "I think we could review it in some detail."

"I thought you said," you begin to tease her but she kisses you, hard and demanding and confident all over again, before you actually get a chance to expand on that statement.

"I know what I said," she mumbles, as you move your hands beneath her shirt and push up on the fabric, "But I also," she pecks at your mouth, teasing, "Reserved the right to change my mind."

She moves her hands from your shoulders tentatively at first, much in the same way she was kissing you but in as much time as it took the brush of lips to become a heated tangle of tongues, her fingers are doing something similar to yours, lightly tracing your stomach. She rocks against you and leans forward to deepen the kiss, shivering a little when you groan in response and you pull at her clothing more insistently this time, palms pressing against her shoulders until she sits upright to reluctantly lift her arms.

You pull the shirt over her head and the bra from her body and smile a little as she automatically folds her arms. Circling her wrists with your fingers, you tug at her arms and hold them by her side, waiting for her to look up and meet your eyes. Finally she does, and lets out a half-embarrassed sigh so you let your fingers brush against the side of her face and say, "About that anatomy…"

She smiles a little; her voice is flirtatious again, "What about it?"

"I can't think of a specific question right now," you thumb her bottom lip, "Tell me what you know."

"The mucous membrane of the margins of the lips is highly sensitive, represented by a large area on the sensory cortex," she breathes, shivering as you pull your hand away, fingertips just barely touching her lips.

"And then," hers darts out of her mouth and slides along her bottom lip as she shuffles backwards, more than comfortable now that there's something to explore which she knows inside out, "There's the tongue."

At which point, you realise she's perched on your knees, fingers tugging at the zip of your pants and mouth open as she concentrates on her hands. You smirk a little because God, this was a good idea and you accommodate her attempts to remove two layers of clothing at once with that thought (and several others) in mind.

"It's skin is more sensitive that that of the fingertips," the emphasis is perfectly in time with the motion of her hands as said fingertips brush against you far too lightly, "And it also possesses the sense of taste to accept," she leans forward and _breathes_against you, all moist and warm and playful, and you groan little at her knowing grin, "Or reject what is in the mouth," and it's painfully brief, but she does choose this point to pause significantly, parted lips slipping forward over your erection.

She curls her fingers around you and moves them in time with her mouth, slowly and deliberately and further forward each time until she's breathing against you once more. And you would be disappointed about that, because it's wet and warm and almost claustrophobic, but you're curious to see what she's going to say next.

"The mucous membrane on the dorsum of the tongue consists of two parts: the anterior two-thirds, covered in a thick fibrous mucous membrane, the surface is projected into two types of papillae, conical and fungiform. Conical papillae are the reason behind the tongue's velvety," she lets hers slide along your length, "Texture. The remaining posterior third is bounded by vallate papillae, which form an apex towards the back of the mouth. Behind the vallate papillae, the posterior one-third like the soft palate above it, is coated with mucus from multiple glands and makes a smooth," she tilts her head sideways, pressing the inside of her gum against you and you wonder where on earth she thought of that, "Slippery" you're presently glad the shyness seems forgotten when she repeats the gesture with the edge of her tongue, "Surface for," she tenses and relaxes her bottom lip, drawing the tip of your erection in and out of her mouth repeatedly before tossing her hair a little and saying coyly, "Swallowing."

Since it seems imperative to say something witty in response, you tug at her hair gently and observe wryly, "You're very knowledgeable."

She giggles and resumes her lecture.

"The lowest fibres of genio-glossus draw the tongue forward," she demonstrates and you twist your fingers in her hair, "Stylo-glossus opposes this movement, drawing it backward," she performs the counteraction, "Hyo-glossus draws the sides of the tongue downwards. The position is altered by the mylo-hyoid muscle on which the tongue rests on the floor of the," she takes you in her mouth again moves her head backward and forward several times, smirking at you, "Mouth. The tongue is mobile enough to perform almost _any_," and her mouth is engaged all over you again; to illustrate her point, she loops her tongue around and sucks gently as she moves backward to finish the sentence, "Movement."

Both hands twist in her hair and you tug upwards at her body insistently, because if she doesn't stop, it's all going to be over embarrassingly quickly, "Addison, much as I'm enjoying this study of your mouth..."

She smiles and crawls upwards until her lips are poised above yours, "We've become medical schools greatest cliché."

You run your hands over her hips and along her waist, pausing to brush the back of your palms against the curve of her breasts, "Because knowing how it all works, this kind of thing is different now."

She leans backwards and tugs up at your shirt, "I'm just muscles and bones, arteries and veins, nerves and glands to you?"

You let her pull the shirt over your head and shrug, "No but," you reach out and trace the pinkish brown flesh surrounding her left nipple, "The breast tissue doesn't extend beyond the margin of the areola," you quote, filling your palm with subcutaneous fat, "I particularly liked this part I have to say, he says the female form is variable indeed," you squeeze at her chest gently, "But the size of the base of the breast is fairly constant. It extends from," you press your lips into her chest in the appropriate place, "The second to the sixth," you slide your tongue along the underside of her breast, "Rib, lying over the pectoralis major."

"Trust you to remember that," she murmurs, moaning quietly as you roll her nipple between your teeth, squeezing the other between thumb and forefinger, "I bet you read that chapter first."

"Actually I started at chapter one," you smirk as she arches her back into your mouth, effectively pressing her hips against yours, "With tissues and structures. This is the outer layer of the epidermis," your fingers brush against the skin between her breasts lightly, "The dead horny layer," you both laugh a little at that, "Softened by the watery secretions of sweat glands."

She lets her head fall forward and tugs at your earlobe with her teeth, "I'm dead horny."

"Does that mean you haven't changed your mind?" you brush your lips against hers and thumb her nipples absently.

She nods, "Yeah, I want to."

And it does have some kind of greater meaning. You slide your hands along her body, bits and pieces of information coming to mind. _Ribs are not primarily protective. In air-breathing mammals their primary function is respiratory._ You trace hers absently as she sucks in a breath. _The wall of the thorax and the wall of the abdomen are one, topographically and developmentally._ And then your hands are resting on her twelfth rib, tracing the external oblique muscle of the anterior abdominal wall back to its insertion into the out lip of the iliac crest. _Inserted as fleshy fibres into the anterior half._She laughs at little, at your expression as your hands move over her body and names the places you touch quietly, pressing her body against your hands.

Finally you're unbuttoning and unzipping her designer jeans, pressing your fingers (phalanges) against her through her underwear and she's staring at the movements of your left hand as your trace circles against the lace muttering, "Figure 2.66, the Palmar view."

Her fingers close over your wrist and she digs her nails into each carpal bone, pulling your hand close, "Trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, lunate, capitate, triquetral, pisiform and hamate, oh God," because you've wedged a hand in her panties and let your thumb trace slow circles against her, two fingers pushed inside of her and your hand wet from her arousal.

She groans, rocking against your fingers and reaching down to remove what remains of her clothing. You curl your fingers around her hip, and hold her steady but she shakes her head, "Let's just… now, please."

"What exactly are we doing now?" you can't help yourself, even though her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are dilated and it's obvious what she's asking for.

She kisses you roughly and wraps her arms around you face tightly, pulling her body closer so that the damp area at the front of her presses against your erecion, "Erectile tissue consists of fibrous saccules into which aterioles open directly," she mutters quickly, "The helicine arteries elongate during erection which occurs when the arterioles open and the fibrous tissues become tightly distended with arterial blood making erectile tissue red and warm," she stares at you without flinching and completes the paragraph, "Stimuli," (she rocks her hips forward), "Resulting in erection of external genitalia in either sex are mediated by the parasympathetics, nervi erigentes. Ejaculation is initiated by the sympathetic system, the hypogastric nerves," she breathes above you mouth, "And yes, I read that chapter first so do it, now."

"It might be easier," you tell her, swallowing and trying to maintain your focus on logistics at least for another ten to fifteen seconds, "For you if you're the one lying there enjoying it and I'm doing all the work."

She laughs at your distracted reaction and lets you roll her over onto her back, stretching her arms above her head, "Ok, when you put it that way."

And then you're tugging the jeans off her ankles, fingers brushing against where the deltoid ligament, tracing the flexor digitorum longus (_a bipennate muscle, arising by flesh from the tibia_) and pressing into her patella, and brushing against the inside of the thighs which is where your memory fails you but she's sprawled against her covers looking impatient which is really misdirected uncertainty so you let her tug at your wrists until your face is above hers and her palms are pressing against your cheeks.

"Still ok?" you ask, "And we're ok right? We don't need anything or…"

She nods in response, folding her legs around your middle and pulling her body against yours; you both groan at the contact. One of your hands braces her thigh and you press the fingers of the other against her insistently, watching as she sighs breathily and using the momentary distraction to push into her. She half-squeaks, half-moans in surprise, but makes no complaint so you repeat the motion, cautiously at first, until she smirks at you, "I won't break you know."

You don't respond other than to move your hand a little faster, and she squeezes her eyes closed, meeting your thrusts with her hips. You're carefully rhythmic about it all, you listen intently to the small gasps the pressure elicits; because in your experience it works better if you're close yourself before you get to the part where you're both making noises. (You had enough bad sex in high school and college that you think about these things and you consider it your personal responsibility to the girl and yourself to avoid any number of potential disasters.)

You're not normally one to talk much or kiss a lot during sex, maybe it's just because generally you sleep with girls who you wouldn't start a conversation with for any other reason, but when she presses her hand against the back of your neck, trying to pull your mouth to hers it's counterintuitive. Still, she parts your lips with her tongue, breathing heavily into the kiss and the intensity distracts you from the clinical way you've been considering pace.

You're both too breathless to continue though, so she clasps her hands behind your neck and moans, biting down on her lip to silence the sound. You feel her tighten around you, and she collapses against the pillows in a series of small shrieks and breathy noises which was perfectly timed, you think, congratulating yourself just a little before you close your own eyes and lose yourself just a little, until your breathing matches hers and she's lying there, looking at you with a curious expression on her face. You roll sideways, stereotypically, and she writhes around against the pillows with a lazy smile on her face, pressing her palms against the side of your face and pulling it into her shoulder, hugging you against her chest.

You laugh a little at her breathless sigh, "So, are you done studying for the night?"

She nods with closed eyes and pulls down on the covers, shuffling around until the sheet is pulled up around her body and yours, "You can stay if you want."

You lie back and look at her, watching as she settles herself down, curling her body around your side, arm slung across your chest and face resting inches from yours on the pillow.

"You're sure you don't do this often?" you tease, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

She snuggles into your shoulder and sighs, "I might have to with you."

You laugh quietly, "So it _was_good for you?"

She rolls over onto her elbows suddenly and reaches for something hanging from the bed post, "Mmmhmm. Let me show you."

And you realise she's brandishing a stethoscope, grinning widely as she tucks the appropriate parts into your ears and lets the end rest against her chest.

"My dad gave it to me," she murmurs sleepily, "And that's what you did to me."

It's the second time in your life you've listened to a beating human heart and like the first time, you're still somewhat amazed; though your technical knowledge of how and why is more than what it used to be somehow that understanding makes it less of a mystery and more of a miracle.

"And I get to make you listen to my heart," she mumbles, "Because we just had nerdy anatomy sex that didn't mean nothing; just not everything."

The rhythmic thud-thud-thud-thud of the muscle contracting and relaxing is the last thing you hear before your eyes slip closed and your breathing slows slightly.

What lulled you into sleep draws you from it hours later and you drift into consciousness slowly, the process punctuated by the same dull sound at regular pace and interval. She is sleeping beside you, still pressed against your side but you shift sideways, watching as she stirs slightly but quickly curls around the warmth in the sheets where you used to be. Smiling at that, you tuck the stethoscope into her ears and let it rest against her chest, wedged between her arm and her body.

After that her number sits beside the phone for weeks, but you don't call her. Derek finally breaks it off with Amy and you pointedly tease him for weeks about that scrap of paper taped to the wall. You can't explain to yourself why you don't call her yourself, why you don't tell him you did, why you don't do more than smirk at her in anatomy class and why she still grins back sometimes. After a while she pointedly looks the other way and after a while you figure too much time has passed anyway; she's probably not expecting anything. When Derek tells you he ran into her on campus and rambles about her for at least half an hour before you deliberately drop the telephone in his lap, you decide it's easier this way. You're not really sure why you do this kind of thing, but you're an idiot and you think some questions are better off left unanswered.

Later in the year, first semester results are published for all your subjects and she beats you overall at anatomy, coming first in the class, but you score the best by far on the practical dissection. Professor Lyndes, who you still call 'that old guy' comes up behind you and clears his throat. You turn around in surprise; a little embarrassed to be caught staring at a result that obviously impresses you but the professor waves you off, grinning.

"Go ahead," he says, "Stare all you like; it was an excellent result. I haven't given a 99 to a first year in oh," he pauses thoughtfully, "Nine years. The last was Jeremy Pitchard."

You raise an awed eyebrow, "Brilliant surgeon."

The professor nods.

"You have an extraordinary gift for dissection young man," he tells you, "And if you actually applied yourself you'd give that Montgomery something to worry about. I can always pick the speciality my students would be most suited to," he sighs, "Sometimes it takes longer than others, but with you," he taps at the score printed next to your name, "You have to be considering surgery."

You shrug, "I was thinking plastics."

He nods shortly, "You'll be a brilliant surgeon Sloan," he pauses thoughtfully, "But consider it carefully. You've got an ability that I can't teach, you look at a bod and you can visualise it. I'm sure that half the time you forget the name of half the parts you're exposing but you can see exactly what you're doing before you even pick up a scalpel," he sighs, "And it will come effortlessly to you. Just remember, the best things in life are the things you have to work for, fight for, try and try again until you finally obtain whatever it was you were after. Plastics won't give that to you, but you'll be brilliant and," he sighs again, "The young always confuse the idea of greatness with genuine happiness," he trails off and shuffles away.

The next day, you sit beside her for the last class of semester and smile, "Hey pretty redhead from anatomy."

She turns to you, with a withering glare and says coldly, "Do. Not. Talk. To. Me."

"Addison," you begin but she cuts you off with a finger raised in warning.

"It wasn't just sex," she mutters, "It was intimate and personal so don't lie to me and tell me it wasn't. And don't talk to me because I was an idiot to think that you'd care and that you'd call and that you'd be interested in a girl like me."

"I…"

"No," she says finally, "If you're interested in a girl you call her, you fight for her, you try and try again until she agrees to go out with you. So no, you're not interested. And no, don't talk to me."

"I gave Derek your number," you shrug.

"He called," she offers in response.

"If you're interested in a girl you break up with your girlfriend," you mumble and she nods, "I heard you and her had a _thing_."

"Not like our thing."

"What did you want me to do?" she sighs, running a hand through her hair, "It was one time, and then you didn't call and you cut class for two weeks just to avoid me… I gave you a chance, and I kept giving it another day, another week. I gave you more chances than you deserved."

"Yeah well," you tap your pencil against the desk, "He saw you first."

She reaches out and slams your wrist and your pencil against the bench top so hard that it breaks, "That's a pathetic excuse Mark Sloan, which is fitting because you are pathetic. It was never that my theory was flawed, it was just that I forgot to mention the second concept: that you liked me and because you were scared of your feelings, you tried to make me into one of those girls you just screw. Well, I guess that's my fault because I was stupid enough to let you."

They're the two incidents you remember most vividly: Addison and anatomy, and Looney Lyndes telling you that you have to fight for anything worth having. At the time you didn't make the connection.


	8. Skin Against Skin

Author's Notes: Aaaaand more sex. Don't lie. This is always what you were in it for.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Skin Against Skin.**

You can't decide if it's the fever or the more vivid points in your memory, but you wake up shivering from the sweat drying on your skin. The room is dark but you still think the corners might not be fixed and you blink a few times, trying to orientate yourself. The headache is back and your throat aches so you sit up, grope around for the painkillers that have somehow ended up on the carpet and take an extra half-dose two hours after your last. It won't kill you, but the headache feels like it might at this point. You're lying there, waiting for the drugs to start working, when the door opens. Closing your eyes to the light, it registers somewhere in your mind that it must be Derek and that gives you grounds to pretend you're still asleep for a while, because he'll never be able to tell the difference.

You're surprised then, when the door shuts on the sliver of light from the hall so you open your eyes again, and the silhouette before you is distinctly feminine, losing an inch in height as she kicks off the ridiculous heels. You're trying to figure out what _Addison_is doing here in the middle of the night or at least, the late evening when you remember that Derek's on call. Still, you can't imagine your best friend having the foresight to ask his ex-wife to keep you company, especially after this afternoon's conversation.

So you watch her surreptitiously and she obviously does think you're asleep because she sighs to herself and sinks down onto the bed beside you, letting her palm skim across the pillow. Her other arm is wrapped around her body, squeezing tightly and she listens to your breathing for a few seconds before shuffling around again, pulling her legs from the floor and lying beside you.

"You listen to me mister," she mutters sleepily, burrowing down into the covers beside you, "You'd better get better or I'm going to be forced to kill you myself."

You chuckle at her, and she looks up, startled, "I didn't know you were awake."

"Am I?" you ask, still half-asleep, "I'm not dreaming this?"

She giggles and clutches at the covers, twisting them between her fingers, "You were dreaming about me?"

You smirk at her, "Maybe."

She narrows her eyes at you, "Only you Mark, only you would be thinking about _sex_while otherwise incapacitated."

"Hey," you touch her face, "I was dreaming about you."

She shuffles closer and rests her head against your hand, "How're you feeling?"

"Crap," you shrug, moving your fingers against her skin; she smells good and you hate yourself for noticing, "But better now."

She shakes her head against the pillow, sighing in a rush of air that makes your face prickle, "Because I'm here?"

You grin, "That or the painkillers have finally kicked in, take your pick."

"I got a spare key from reception," she murmurs, "It's alarming how easy it was."

"I was wondering how you got in," you say, sliding your hand down along her neck and across her collarbone absently, "I thought you were Derek."

"He's at the hospital," she whispers and you can feel a sharp pull of breath in the rise of her chest, her skin responding to your touch.

"I know," you respond, fingers curling around the back of her neck to pull her face closer, "You've been worried about me."

It's a statement, not a question and she wets her lips. Whether that's because she doesn't know how to respond or because you're breathing over them is anyone's guess.

"A little," she shrugs, leaning in closer until her nose brushes against yours just slightly.

The small talk has been an excuse not to be kissing since she deposited herself on your bed and both of you know it so when you feel the shiver of anticipation through your hand, her body trembling slightly, you shift slightly to press your mouth against hers.

She groans quietly and presses her palms against the side of your face, twisting her body until she's leaning over you, one knee slung over your legs and tongue pressing against yours insistently. You're startled by her reaction; yesterday you would have said she would slap you if you tried to kiss her but you let your hands wander, slipping beneath the neckline of her sweater.

"We shouldn't," you kiss her distractedly, the tangle of tongues interrupted each time you pull away to mumble a little more of your sentence, "You'll get sick."

"Doesn't matter," she mumbles, pressing her body against your hands.

The fabric stretches and makes a noise of protest so you tug at it insistently, pulling it over her head. You're trailing kisses along her jaw and fingering the satin seam of her bra, listening to her heavy breathing when she pulls backwards. You look up at her and meet her eyes, moving to brush your lips against hers but she turns before you can, so you miss her mouth but kiss her chin lightly.

"We should stop," she murmurs softly but firmly, her sweater falling onto the ground beyond her reach as she does. You press your palms against the warmth of her stomach as she says it and nod a little, because some part of you knows this will only complicate things; you were making progress and this would be a backwards step. Whether backwards is the right direction is something your head and your body currently disagree about.

She moves sideways until there are cubic inches of air between you, which doesn't make it any easier because you can still feel her beside you, but you try to ignore the fact that she tastes like coffee and smells like she always does, fruity shampoo and some designer perfume which you can't remember the name of.

"Sorry," she offers lamely, reaching out to run a hand along your arm.

You circle her wrist and play with her fingers absently, resting them against your chest, "It's ok. You're right. We shouldn't."

"Mark?" she asks timidly, twisting around to face you.

You smile at her, because you don't really mind and you can tell she thinks you do, "It's ok Ad."

"No I," she looks embarrassed, "Can we just talk for a while? I mean, not about anything serious," she adds quickly, and you curse your instinctive reaction to recoil at those words, "Just, please?"

You sigh, "Yeah of course."

"If you want me to go I will," she begins hurriedly, clearly taking your reaction as a sign of reluctance.

"No it's ok," you assure her, running your hand over your face thoughtfully, "Stay Ad, please."

"I don't know why I'm here," she confesses quietly, gripping your hand a little more tightly, "Today was just such an exhausting day and I," she hesitates until you trace her pinkie in encouragement, "I just needed to be close to someone and you," she sighs and shuffles sideways until her side is pressed against yours, "You're always my someone."

Whatever uncertainty you may have felt, you can't argue with that so you pull your arm out from between you to make room for her and wrap it around her shoulder, fingers brushing her skin lightly. She lets her eyes slip closed and rests her head against your shoulder, sighing happily, "Thank you."

"What happened?" you ask her quietly, "Did something go wrong at the hospital or with Derek?"

"No," she shakes her head, "I haven't seen him since I left here. And I didn't have anything out of the ordinary. One of my patients at eight weeks miscarried," she shrugs, "But it happens."

You twist her hair between your fingers, "Yeah."

"It just reminds me sometimes," she admits quietly, "But I said we didn't have to talk about anything serious so…"

"We can talk about it Ad," you rest your head against hers and even though you have no desire to talk about it, you would, if it's what she needs, "If you want."

"No," she shakes her head just barely but you're so close that you can detect the movement, "We're talking about different things."

"What do you mean?"

"I was pregnant," she says.

"I know," you respond, tensing a little and trying to avoid the instinctive reaction to shuffle sideways because being so close to her and talking about this is hard.

"No," she corrects you softly; "It must be two years ago now. We'd been trying for so long and I was twice before I think, but I never told him. I wasn't sure; it happened before ... it wouldn't have been four weeks so," she exhales with resolution, swallowing nervously, "So a positive test was a big deal you know? And he was working all the time then, so I thought that," she nestles closer but turns her back to you, reaching behind her to drag your arm across her body. Your first instinct is to bury your face in her shoulder because she's soft and warm and you miss the days when if it was late and she was sleeping, you could allow yourself to do that. Instead you shift a little uncomfortably; it's not that you don't like physical contact with other people: you just struggle with the overlap of emotional and physical intimacy. If she wanted to sleep you wouldn't mind. If she wants to talk − especially about this − then you want to be on the other side of the bed.

"It's stupid," she continues finally, lacing her fingers through yours, seemingly unaware of how fucking _stupid_you feel because there's no way you're going to know what to say to her and this already feels awkward, "I thought that if we had a baby then… he'd be home more or we'd be able to face up to the problems because he'd feel more obliged to make it work."

And this is obviously your cue to say something, anything, so you squeeze at her hand a little and mumble something to let her know that you're listening, "What happened?"

"I was about six weeks along when we," she pauses to clarify, "Myself and Doctor Fairstein, who was my OB, decided to monitor the pregnancy closely, because I told him I suspected I had previously miscarried more than once without interrupting my cycle, and that would indicate some underlying problem so we were doing weekly tests, just to make sure everything was ok. At six weeks we noticed slightly low levels of progesterone, which is sometimes a preventable cause of early miscarriage."

Her voice is shaking a little at this point; she sounds like she might cry.

"And you can treat it, orally, if it's a genuine deficiency but it's rare and in a lot of cases it's merely an indication that spontaneous abortion is going to occur because the foetus is … no longer developing so progesterone levels drop as a natural response. Oral progesterone treatments just prolong the inevitable. I, _we_ told Derek that it was unlikely to make any difference because I had no problems until then, everything was normal and I've never had any history of abnormal progesterone levels or any symptoms up to that point. But he wanted to try it for a few weeks, since it doesn't have any adverse effects if … well, if you're going to miscarry anyway, it doesn't matter does it? But I just couldn't Mark; I just couldn't pretend that it was going to be ok when I knew, as a doctor I just _knew_how it was going to end and I didn't want to put myself through that. It was hard enough without spending six weeks waiting for it to happen."

She hides her face in the pillow and you suspect it's to conceal her tears but the most you can manage at this point is to hug her closer and move your thumb against her wrist in light circles, "Addison?"

"I'm ok," she trembles a little as she sucks in a breath and turns in your arms, pressing her face into your shoulder and despite her words, you can feel the warm wetness of her tears, "Really," she insists, when you tighten your hold on her and brush your fingers through her hair, "I'm fine. It's just," she swallows and falls against you, unable to meet your eyes, "He blamed me."

"It wasn't your fault Ad," you murmur, because you hate it when she cries.

"I _know_," she counters forcefully, "I've spent _years_telling patients that there's nothing they could have done, that no one knows why it happens but he just… he couldn't understand why I wouldn't, why I couldn't have taken the progesterone for a few weeks just in case it helped."

"Would it have helped?" you ask because you're slightly curious, but you stroke her hair in case she thinks you're prying or if it strikes a chord.

"My cortisol levels were slightly elevated, within normal levels but still, elevated and he thought I was stressed," she sighs, "That I was working too much. There's usually no correlation between stress and miscarriage except in daytime soaps but since cortisol and progesterone compete for common receptors in cells... progesterone activity can be impaired by abnormally high cortisol levels leading to oestrogen dominance. And that would have impaired the effectiveness of any progesterone replacement therapy anyway. He said there was a chance it might have worked though and there was, but the probability of it happening…"

She trails off and you nod in response, "There's a non-zero probability of anything but sometimes, despite all the hope in the world, there's nothing you can do."

She nods, "You think he would have learned that by now."

"He never trusted the science Addison," you remind her, "You honestly think it wouldn't have been worth it?"

She pulls backwards to stare at you, "Why?"

"Just," you nudge her side gently, "You don't feel guilty because of a what if do you?"

"No," she declares resolutely, "No, medically I was right. All my experience told me there was nothing we could have done differently and he had all his hopes pinned on the slightest chance… he was only ever going to be disappointed," she blinks back another wave of tears, "I just wish he hadn't been disappointed with me."

"He had no right to be," you tell her softly, "And you know that."

"After that everything was different," she smiles at you sadly, and even though you hate being the guy that tells her all men are bastards while she's laying between your sheets so obviously you're a bastard too, those grateful looks almost make it worth it; "Because he was so busy and he just got busier. At first he wanted to try again but then I explained that you have to wait, for at least 12 weeks and even though that's sound medical advice he said that I'd changed, that he didn't know me anymore," she chews at her lip, "It was one stupid argument, but in retrospect," she shrugs, "When he said it, I thought he was just angry and that his anger was misdirected grief but maybe he meant it because everything got so much worse after that."

"That's why," she finishes quietly, "That's why I was so apprehensive in the first place, that's why I didn't want to talk about it, that's why I didn't want to tell any one, that's why I didn't want a baby with you because I," she sniffs, her elbow pressing against your ribs as she raises a palm in between you to wipe at her eyes furiously, "I didn't want you to blame me. And we weren't ready for that. We just… we barely talked. I didn't think… I mean, you're an all right guy underneath all that crap Mark, I know you would have stuck around but things were already so out of control, I didn't want you to stay with me just because of it. And you, you said you wouldn't," she pulls backwards and twists the sheets between her fingers, "You said it would just be me. And then you… then it wasn't."

"I'm sorry," you offer uselessly, "I'm an idiot Ad. You know that."

"Yeah," she nods; her hair rustles against the sheets, "I've known that for years and for some reason, I keep reminding myself the hard way."

You resist the urge to tell her she's wrong; that you mean different things and that all these things happen to you by accident, that you never meant not to call her and that you never meant to sleep with her and that you certainly never meant to sleep with the nurse from peds. It sounds like an excuse but you've spent hours of reflection trying to explain your own actions and it's the best you can come up with. You never meant to hurt anyone; somehow it just seems to be yet another thing you're effortlessly good at.

"You should have told me," you tell her, changing the subject, "If you were worried about it, or if you didn't want to go through with it you should have told me and we could've … talked about it."

"Oh Mark," she laughs to herself mirthlessly, "We didn't talk about anything. And I couldn't tell you I didn't want it, not after you… you were so enthusiastic about it at first," she grins at you, runs her fingers along your jaw for a minute before searching your eyes seriously looking for some kind of answer, "I never knew why because we weren't even together and it obviously wasn't planned. I thought you'd be angry or at least, afraid and that would manifest itself as frustration," she pauses, looking at you in wonderment, "But then again, you always surprised me."

"That's because you always expect to be disappointed," you counter incredulously because it's true, "No matter what I did or what I do, you always act as though I can't possibly be sincere because there's no way I could possibly do or feel anything genuinely heartfelt which just," you sigh, "Isn't true. It never has been."

"You may be right," she concedes, "But I expect you to let me down for good reason," she reminds you, alluding to that time before she was your best friend's girlfriend, when you think she might have liked you more than you were willing to admit at the risk of being disappointed yourself.

"We were twenty-one years old," you say, "When are you going to move past that?"

"I don't think I should have to," she counters, raising her voice slightly and you detect a hint of pent up anger in her eyes, "Because you were… you… I…"

And she's fumbling for her words again, like she did at twenty-one and you're still finding it both endearing and terrifying because you want to hold her against you, kiss her until that self-doubt is replaced by confidence but somewhere inside you're insecure and afraid in exactly the same way yourself so you don't know how to fix her. Some part of you that you were never willing to acknowledge at the time always thought you weren't good enough for her; that she needed someone who could appreciate all parts of the breathtaking whole and someone who could express that in ways she would understand. If there's one thing that has never come easily to you, it's expressing how you feel and what you think without your words being misinterpreted. And she was amazing; smart and funny and undeniably hot but it's as though she had never noticed the same things about herself. She needed someone to make her understand herself and you couldn't even understand your own myriad of issues. In some way, you always thought Derek was good for her. Derek was the kind of guy who would know what to say, you thought; Derek was the kind of guy who would be able to appreciate her for more than her body and be able to express that. At twenty-one, you never thought he would be the kind of guy to forget about her; to treat her like you did because you'd rather make nothing out of something than be caught out trying to make something from nothing.

"You were the first," she whispers finally, after moments of silence.

"You didn't say it was the first time," you look at her, "And you can't possibly think you loved me."

"No," she looks at you in fond perplexity and you realise you must have jumped to conclusions so far from the truth that she finds them amusing rather than offensive; "It wasn't the first time," she blushes a little, "I mean, I … I told you I hadn't done it much but… well I wasn't that much of a loser you know."

"I didn't mean it like…" you begin but she cuts you off, sitting up against the headboard and clasping her hands behind her knees.

"I know," she smiles shyly, tucking the curtain of hair that spills over her shoulders behind her ears, "But that's not what I meant either. And I never thought I loved you. I did like you though," she grins at you, "More than I liked Derek for a while, though you never believed me."

"Still don't," you sniff, for the sake of an old argument.

She smirks, "Derek had a girlfriend and I always used to pride myself in being strong enough to put aside any feelings I might have felt for attached men because I'm not the kind of woman who sits around waiting for someone to realise they want me."

"He always wanted you," you inform her, "He was just too nice for his own good sometimes and it took him months to work up the nerve to tell Amy it was over."

"I'll bet you never had that problem," she teases.

"No," you smirk, "Because I was never stupid enough to go out with Amy. But you liked him; admit it."

"I never said I didn't like him," she pokes your shoulder, "I just said that I liked you more for a while, in spite of the fact that you weren't the kind of guy the old Addison would have been interested in but I was… someone else with you. And I liked that. Before that night," she refuses to meet your eyes, "I never would have thought we had a chance but you were… so different to how I first expected you to be. You ruined it though," she sighs, "I guess I was right and wrong about you at the same time."

"He did see you first you know," you say quietly, "It wasn't just an excuse. He was my best friend and I wasn't going to let something as trivial as sex get in the way of that but you were right," it's complicated to explain, "It was easier. If I told myself I couldn't because Derek liked you then I never had to and some part of me was… scared I guess. I'm cynical Ad; it never would have worked."

"You don't know that," she whispers quietly, admonishing but gentle, reaching for your hand where it is resting beside her body and squeezing at your fingers.

"Yeah I do," you sigh, "Whenever I have anything worth having I always feel the need to fuck it up."

"I know," she murmurs, "But I wouldn't have let you."

"Yes you would have," you counter, "You did."

"It hurt," she hugs herself tightly, drawing your hand with hers until it is pressed against the side of her knee, "I didn't realise how much it would until it did."

Moments of silence ensue; she sits with her body curled up against the end of the bed and you lay there, fingers tangled in hers, unsure of how to respond.

Finally you have to say something, so you raise your voice barely above a whisper, "What did you mean?"

"What did I mean when I said you were the first?" she says.

"Yeah," you respond, "What did you mean?"

"You were the first time I," she looks embarrassed, "Enjoyed sex."

"Really?" you can't decide whether to smirk because obviously, that admission earns you bragging rights, or whether to sound as surprised as you feel.

She nods wordlessly and stares at her knees, "I mean, I'd done it before but… the first time I didn't want to again so he broke up with me. And after that, I went out with Harrison Smethsons, you know, the orthopaedic surgeon at Bellevue?"

"And you call me an ass," you mutter.

Her laugh is understated, "We were at college together and he was a lot less cocky in his youth, unlike someone I know."

You pretend to look wounded but then smile smugly, "I changed your mind about sex. Obviously I thought highly of myself with good reason."

She shakes her head at you, "I knew I shouldn't have told you that. Ever. Your ego does well enough all on its own."

"So Smethsons is crap in bed?" you raise an eyebrow at her; "That would explain why both his ex-wives were more than willing to sleep with me."

She narrows her eyes at you, "Is that why he hates you?"

"Hell, he doesn't know," you tell her, "And for the record, both of them were _ex_-wives."

"That wouldn't have stopped you," she accuses.

"Maybe not," you shrug, "You never answered the question though."

"It was twenty years ago Mark," she shakes her head at you, "But if you must know, he was… selfish. And it was always painful but thankfully, quick. And for the record, that doesn't mean you're a better person, surgeon or doctor than he is."

"But I am," you shrug.

"Just because he beat you on one final in second-year med school," she smirks.

"And because he treated you like crap," you let the back of your hand brush against her thigh, "Instinctively I must have known because I always thought he was an ass. I bet he never bothered to make you come."

"Mark," she warns, sounding mortified.

You sigh and rest your head against the side of her body where it makes contact with the mattress, "Seriously Addison, did he?"

She shuffles from side to side and looks uncomfortable, "Not really. Never during actual sex. You were the first guy who ever cared about that and the first that ever made me think men should care," she looks embarrassed, "It's not that I didn't expect to be respected or anything; I just… thought it was me."

You grin at her, "Certainly wasn't you."

She shakes her head at you in exasperation, "You don't get to take all the credit for it either."

You roll onto your stomach and reach out to brush the hair from her eyes, "Hey, I've got one of your firsts. You can't have that ever again so I guess it sort of belongs to me, in a way. And I reserve the right to..."

"Sing your own praises?" she mutters wryly, "So I noticed."

"That's significant though," you muse philosophically, "You can never do something for the first time twice and it's something we have that no one else can share."

"What about me?" she looks up coyly, pressing her hand against yours, trapping your fingers against her face, "Was I a first for you?"

"Yeah," you answer, but you're silent for a moment afterwards. She was the first, but what exactly is unclear, hard to verbalise. You don't know how to tell her because you don't know what she is to you; she's not everything but close to it, she's like air but you're not melodramatic enough to think that you couldn't live without her and she's a constant, always there in some way or another. She is overwhelming and terrifying and you can never quite have enough of her skin against yours. There's an anxiety about it that confuses you and yet you've never really felt comfortable with anyone else.

She smiles, "What?"

"Yours was the first heart I listened to," you tell her, "Other than my own."

Laughing quietly she shakes her head at you, "That's a line from some saccharine romantic comedy."

"When we were nine-years-old we went to the hospital after Derek's dad died," you continue by way of explanation since it is particularly significant to you, "And one of the doctors, he must have been an intern, told us what happened and let me play with his stethoscope. It was why I wanted to be a doctor for a long time and … that was the second time I'd heard a human heartbeat, the first person's other than my own and I," you pause, considering your words, "Still found it somewhat inexplicable at twenty-one, even knowing how it worked and understanding the mechanism, that we're here and breathing at all."

She looks surprised at the honesty of this admission, "Did I make you want to be a doctor?"

"Yeah," you bury your face in the pillow a little and she rests a palm against your cheek, "Or at least, you reminded me why I wanted to do it in the beginning."

"You were the first person I ever used that on you know," she smiles fondly, "The stethoscope I mean. Actually, you were the only person I ever used it on. It was purely a good luck charm after that."

"You were the first person who ever challenged me," you tell her, "The first person who I ever thought might actually be smarter than me."

She laughs, "You would say that."

"It's true," you defend yourself.

"You were the first time I ever cheated," she confesses, "I never even flirted with anyone else. Derek did," she smiles a little at the memory and you look a little shocked.

"Oh we were still in school," she laughs at your reaction, "He kissed Elise Spencer at her twenty-second birthday party. You knew about it and promised not to tell me, but he felt so bad about it that he came right out with it and spent at least five minutes begging for forgiveness."

"I never knew he told you about that," you grin at her, "He made me swear not to tell you…"

"And you never would have," she finishes the sentence slightly differently to how you would have but the overall idea is the same, "You used to be best friends," she leans against your hand, "I never thought anything would change that."

"You're the first woman who ever came between us," you tell her, cupping the side of her face and brushing your thumb against her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be," you tell her, pulling her closer and running your fingers along her jaw, angling her face towards yours, "You were the first woman who mattered enough."

She kisses you, not desperately but with intent and you let a hand slip beneath her skirt, brushing the inside of her thighs as she lets her eyes slip closed and her lips linger over yours.

She breathes against your mouth, "Do I still matter enough?"

You brush your fingers against her underwear and watch her instinctive reaction as she rocks forward against your hand.

"You said yourself that nothing really matters," you murmur, repositioning yourself so you're lying between her ankles, "But if anything did, it would be you."

She makes a small noise in the back of her throat and for a moment, you're unsure whether it's encouragement or protest so you pause, both hands firmly embedded under her skirt, one tracing patterns against the satin fabric and the other curled around the elastic at the top, tugging downwards insistently. For a moment you stare at her and she stares back, neither of you moving. Then she laughs quietly, "We always do this."

There is a moment of shuffling and readjusting; she lifts her hips and you drag the panties down her legs slowly, noticing the contrast between silk and skin. She sinks down on the mattress and watches you; you brush your fingers along a faint scar on the inside of her ankle knowing that the wound only left a mark because the skin covers a joint and the ability to heal was comprised by natural stretching.

You don't speak because words always seem to screw this kind of thing up for you, so you sit up beside her and nudge her shoulder cautiously, waiting for her to respond. She nudges you back, smiling as you move your fingers in slow circles along the back of her thigh. It should be enough confirmation but it's not; you press your nose against your cheek and mumble in her ear, "We don't have to."

She turns her face towards yours; your foreheads brush.

"But we will," she states simply, pressing her mouth to yours gently. The kiss is slow and lazy, filled with mutual expectation and familiarity because you've done this so many times that you both know how it works. When you work your hand up between her legs, your fingers slide a little against the unexpected wetness and she moans a little into your mouth at the contact. You trace circles more pointedly as she opens her eyes and meets yours, smiling against your mouth, embarrassed by her reaction.

"It's ok," you tell her, whispering in a warm rush of air against her neck, "Relax."

Her eyes slip closed and she rests her back against the wall in response, her neck arched gracefully and her hair spilling out behind her. Her teeth pull her bottom lip into her mouth to stifle another of those noises and you're surprised at how quickly her body responds to your touch because she's rocking slightly against your hand now. You brush your lips against the exposed skin of her neck, your chin scratching against her shoulder. She reaches up and curls a hand behind your neck, fingers stroking your hair appreciatively and that's definitely a sign you're doing something right. She'd never actually tell you if you weren't because most times, she's uncharacteristically undemanding in bed but you've learnt to read her non-verbal answers to your non-verbal questions.

"God," she murmurs as you kiss behind her ear, chin resting on her shoulder, "Are you going to join me anytime soon?"

You know she'd come faster and harder probably if you slipped your fingers inside her instead of just momentarily sliding them against the wetness at her entrance and smearing it against her clit but there's plenty of time for that; this is just build up. You smirk at her and shake your head, pressing one fingertip against _that_spot a little harder, "This is just you."

She groans but it jumps in pitch as you make a slow circular motion with your index finger. You've learnt, from years of experience, that less is sometimes more and that you really can get a girl off with your non-dominant pinkie if you concentrate on precision rather than being everywhere at once. It's something you boast about, but really it's the product of years of surgical training, an unhealthy curiosity with experimentation and too much sex with women you didn't care about. Still, it has its upside; you watch the skin between her breasts turn pink in the shadowy light and she turns her face towards yours, her breathing almost feathering your skin. You love seeing her like this, five seconds from orgasm with pupils dilated by desire and physical sensation, breathing over your lips and desperately trying to tell you she wants it harder, faster but unable to say the words.

She trembles a little and whimpers, covering your hand in moisture and tensing slightly so you know she's trying to hold out. She's so wet and you want to taste her but you know interrupting your rhythm now will be horribly anticlimactic. So you murmur in her ear and increase the speed on your ministrations, "Come for me Ad."

You know that if her chest wasn't so tight from trying to breathe she'd tease you about that, make you say please, but she's shuddering around your hand before she has a chance to regain enough equilibrium to respond. The noises are muted, because she always tries to be quiet but she cries out in a series of 'ohs' as you gradually slow the motion of your fingers until she collapses against your side, smiling fondly.

She giggles throatily and looks up at you, "I shouldn't let you do that."

"Why?" you return earnestly.

"Because," she says with a pout in her voice, pushing her palms flat against your knees, "There's nothing in it for you."

You lean forward to whisper it in her ear and she shivers at the edge in your tone; "There's plenty in it for me."

"Mmm," she turns her head and kisses you hard, her teeth sinking over you lip as you try to pull away and her hands insistently pressing at your legs until you let them rest against the covers, "There could be more in it for you."

"Whatever do you mean?" you manage to retort for the sake of banter as she clambers into your lap, rocking her hips against yours with a flirtatiously raised eyebrow.

She reaches for the hand that was previously between her legs and slides her fingers through yours, leaning her head against yours and pulling your entwined hands up between your faces. Smirking, she runs her tongue along the tip of your index finger and sucks it clean pointedly. And if your body wasn't already responding appropriately, the smell of her on your hands and her tongue on your skin is certainly making you hard. You shift a little beneath her when you notice, but apparently she already has, because she smirks even more and speaks so close to your mouth you can feel her lips brush against yours every so often, "See? It could be a lot better for you."

You still don't understand how she can be ready to go again seconds after the first time but you're hardly going to complain when her wrists disappear beneath your shirt, palms pressed against your stomach and fingers tracing patterns against your skin which are similar to those her tongue is making in your mouth.

You take the opportunity to unclasp her bra, pulling it down her arms until she's forced to remove her hands from your shirt momentarily in order to throw it aside. Your attempts to take advantage of her freed breasts are met with a stern look and a brush of her hands, which are curling around the hem of your shirt, tugging upwards. Because there are far too many clothes involved at this point, you accommodate her attempts to pull it over your head and immediately set to work unzipping her skirt and sharing her disappointed sentiments when she is forced to lift her body from yours so she can slide it down her legs and tug down on your boxers. The result is a completely naked Addison crouched above your legs and crawling up your body, so you can hardly complain about the visual.

You massage her nipples to hard peaks while she settles herself in your lap once more. You both groan as she grinds against you and her breasts bounce a little beneath your hands; she snickers at your wide-eyed reaction but groans when you press your palms flat against her chest, rubbing them against her nipples in circles similar to those you made against her clit. You smirk a little, because her body recognises the similarities and she braces her weight on her hands in order to rock against you with a greater sense of urgency. You lean back against the wall and roll one nipple between your thumb and first two fingers, intent on teasing her for a while but your hands automatically abandon this pursuit in order to brace her hips when she sinks herself onto you; you both gasp a little at the contact.

She tosses her hair a little and moves backwards and forwards experimentally, "Sorry, I couldn't wait."

And you don't mind at all, so you press against her hips with your hands; hers are clasped behind your neck and she's resting all her weight against you so the kisses are somewhat more heated than usual; her tongue presses against yours with more force, assisted by gravity. Each time she moves forward, her hard nipples brush against your chest and she's so wet from the first time that it's slippery, the soft noise of your bodies sliding together punctuating the silence.

You move your hands to her lower back, pulling her closer and she groans, hands pressing against your face as she meets your eyes, rocking more insistently as she does. You couldn't say how much time passes because it all seems to happen so quickly but her skin is slick from the exertion now so maybe it's been longer than you think. Breathing heavily, she presses her lips to yours and she tastes salty, you run your tongue along the edge of her upper lip and she laughs briefly, the trembling of her chest echoed between her legs seconds later. You're close and there's a sort of lusty haze between reality and your perception, so maybe you're imagining it when she mutters a string of curses under her breath and leans forward slightly, altering the angle at which her body is pressed against yours and forcing her clit against your erection with each thrust.

She moans, digging her fingernails into your shoulders and then she's definitely mumbling a series of dirty requests against your mouth, followed by some repetition of your name and she's clenching herself around you, face pressed up against your shoulder to silence the shrieks. You push her backwards a little by the stomach so the noises travel across the room and they get louder still when you feel yourself stiffen inside her, gruffly muttering, "God Addison."

She slumps against you, breathing heavily, her hair damp with sweat and you hug her against you, the lazy contraction of her muscles around you sending a hum of satisfaction through your body.

You stroke her hair affectionately, "Still enjoy sex?"

"Yeah," she mumbles, "I slept with a lot of guys after you, just to prove that it wasn't you and that I could. Stupid really," she readjusts your hips against yours, presumably because it's uncomfortable for her and you trace her thighs absently as she sinks down again, "But I figured you probably did the same thing."

You sigh, "I'm sorry Ad. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know," she writhes around above you, "Men never do."

Privately you think women can be unfair like that, blaming your flaws on your Y-chromosome and not just on you. Still, you don't say that since she's shuffling sideways and drawing the sheets around her shoulders. You push her hair from her eyes, curling the damp strands behind her ears and wait for her to speak. She lies next to you and stretches out, her toes sliding against your shins.

"I should go," she whispers quietly.

"Addison," you argue, a hand tangled in her hair. You open your mouth to continue but realise that's the best you've got.

"No really," she kisses you hurriedly, just a soft, chaste meeting of lips, "I have to be in early tomorrow morning."

"Stay," you plead quietly, hating that note in your voice that makes it sound like a desperate appeal rather than an earnest request.

She swallows and curls her body around your side but doesn't give you an answer. One of your silences ensures, and it's like holding your breath even though both of you are breathing, in and out, because that's the only sound that disturbs the silence.

"I miss you," she admits quietly, "It was never easy; we hurt each other and it exhausted me but at the end of the day," she sighs, "You were there. I miss that. I miss having someone to come home to who smells familiar and," she burrows further into your side, "And who's actually there."

You sigh, "I miss you too."

"Goodnight," she whispers in response, fingers tracing your skin and finally curling into a fist against your chest.

"Yeah," you respond, pressing your lips against the side of her head, "Sweet dreams Addison."

As a surgeon you appreciate skin in a unique way; its texture, depth and fat consistency, the patterns of muscles and nerves and how they cause wrinkles perpendicular to the contracting muscles. Incisions along these wrinkles heal well. You know that surgical incisions made along Langer's lines of cleavage force parallel collagen fibres apart without rupturing them; these wounds heal with a minimum of scar tissue. These lines are not so well marked in the face because there is more in interchange of collage fibres in the dermis. Some things you couldn't explain, some things you couldn't teach an intern to save your life; the response of skin beneath a scalpel, how much pressure Others are easy: it's best to dissect around tiny arteries leading of major blood vessels, called perforators, because the increased blood flow helps a wound to heal.

You let your fingers brush against her shoulder and pull her closer; her skin is warm where it presses against yours. Somehow you appreciate that in a way that is strictly non-surgical.


	9. Just Remember, This Is Us

Author's Notes: Pretty sure this chapter contains some mild adult content as well.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Just Remember, This Is Us.**

Somehow, in the six weeks since Derek's been gone, you have ended up living with Addison by default: neither of you ever mentions making it official but you divide most of your time between the brownstone and your Park Avenue office. You have always had a spare key and she has always laughed at the thought of you ever using it to 'water the plants or feed the non-existent pets' while they were away. You're using it now though; the key is slipping into the lock and the catch is clicking sideways as the other keys on your chain jingle melodiously. The sound of the door opening sounds strange to you and everything about this is slightly awkward but she's here and if you don't come she calls, asks in a way you can't say no to, especially since she is now only legally your best friend's wife.

You would object to the late night phone calls and her ridiculous notion that no one should see you together in public but you suspect they're borne from loneliness and insecurity rather than anything else. You think sometimes that it was always just sex; that she's taking advantage of the fact that you're attractive and available. You think this is a backwards step and that you shouldn't come or that you shouldn't stay but she never lets you leave afterwards, she always lies beside you so you can feel the warmth from her body and she can feel the warmth from yours. You think that if it was just about sex she would feel embarrassed instead of comfortable. You think that if it was just about sex she'd kick you out rather than curling up beside you.

You know that they're excuses and you know you should stop, but the door is giving beneath your palm and you're stepping into the foyer of the brownstone fumbling for the light switch. You're a little later than usual because it's a Thursday night (you do late evening consults on Thursday and one or two procedures on Friday night for professionals who can't leave their work during regular hours) so she should be home already but you're both doctors, surgeons, and a delay of four hours isn't something to be alarmed about.

Cursing, you finally find the light switch and step into the hall, dumping your bag at the foot of the steps and noticing the sliver of light peeking out from the door to the downstairs bathroom.

"Addison?" you call, letting the door slide closed with an echoing thud which causes the glass to shake and normally earns you a stern reprimand from her if she hears it.

You are met with silence, so you make a move towards the living room, slipping from the illuminated front room into the darkness beyond you to your right and again, blindly grope for the light switch you know is there.

"Mark?" she says, so softly you're almost sure you imagined it.

"Addison?" you flip the switch with a small snap and the lights flicker to life, illuminating the room in front of you and extending into the kitchen beyond. Her shadowy form is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms wrapped around body tightly. She looks completely exhausted and sighs in response, running a hand through her hair.

You close the distance between you and smile at her a little awkwardly because there's really no telling how any particular evening will play: sometimes she wants sex, sometimes she wants comfort and sometimes she wants both. There really aren't any rules but at the same time, you're pretty sure you're not allowed to care about her because that would imply a relationship. You're pretty sure you're just meant to be her sometimes-friend sometimes-booty call.

"Hey," you offer lightly, "Rough day?"

She shakes her head wordlessly and clears her throat with the intention of speaking before closing her mouth firmly and staring at her feet.

"Ad?" you prompt, "Is everything ok?"

She is silent for a moment in which she nods and shakes her head then nods again; clearly ambivalent about whatever it is that's bothering her. You put a hand on her arm, "Hey, tell me what's going on Ad."

She shivers at the contact when you touch her and yanks her arm away. You try to search her eyes for an explanation but she looks away before you catch her gaze.

"I'm pregnant," she whispers quietly, holding out a copy of the blood work, "Positive," she summarises the findings, "And consistent with four weeks."

It's not that either of you are cold or calculating, it's just the instinctive reaction borne from years of medical training: you do a minute of mental arithmetic and she looks at you in understanding, your calculations are obviously an echo of her earlier ones. Four weeks would place conception two weeks after Derek left so… you swallow nervously, waiting for her to say something more before you allow yourself react at all.

"Say something," she whispers, "God Mark, please."

You don't know what to say.

"Ok," you answer, "I… Addison," you reach out and curl your fingers around her wrist to still her trembling hands.

She looks down at the juxtaposition of skin tones, your hands engulfing her slender wrists and after a moment of concentration her hands are still. You haven't see her this uncertain since medical school; years of surgery mean her hands are always steady now.

She meets your eyes, "I don't know what we're going to do Mark, so please don't ask me."

And that would have been your next question so now you have exactly nothing to offer her in response. She gently tugs at her hand, pulling it from yours and wrapping it around her body defensively.

She's _pregnant_. The magnitude of the statement is incomprehensible. A very small amount of data filters through your mind leftover from your OBGYN rotation as an intern, but it's numbers and figures, dosages and statistics rather than useful information. Statistically speaking though, this has to be unlikely because as far as you know, she was on birth control. Medically, you do know it means cells dividing and systems necessary for life developing: there is little to no chance that a first-trimester foetus can survive outside the womb. Actually? You really have no idea what it means. You don't know if she wants it, if you have a part in any or all of the decisions, what you're meant to do or say.

"Ok," you repeat, steeping closer, "But I… whatever happens I'm here Ad; I promise."

She inhales shakily and leans against the counter, blinking back tears; you still don't know what to do.

"Tell me," she says, "Tell me what to do Mark. I've known for three days and I wasn't going to tell you but I just don't know what's happening anymore. So just tell me what I'm supposed to do."

She lets you pull her against you then and crush her against your chest. She makes fists in your shirt and sighs noisily, resting all her weight against you so you hold her upright and offer her the only truth you can think of, "I don't know, but we'll work it out Ad."

She nods and you pull back to stare at her, raking the hair from her face and tangling your fingers in the honey-coloured curls against the back of her neck.

"It'll be ok," you tell her, "Addison?"

She bites down on her lip and nods again, "So you want to … do this?"

If you were idealistic she might have to be more specific but she wasn't going to tell you in the first place which means she's already considered the options you didn't want to bring up. You don't know how she feels about all of this and you don't want to sound presumptuous. Really, it's the furthest thing from the truth since you don't know what to _a_ssume let alone _pre_sume.

"Yeah," you try not to shrug and look ambivalent because you don't really know what _this_is but you'd be willing to try, for her, "If it's what you want."

She sighs, "I don't know what I want anymore."

"I'm not going to tell you what to do," you nudge her gently, "Because you've got a lot more resting on the decision than I have and honestly, I'm not sure I'm allowed to, post-feminism and all that," she smiles at your wry tone and slaps your arm, interjecting, "You can say you want it. I won't think less of you as a man."

It's somewhat reassuring that you can still tease each other.

You smirk, "Being _thought_less of a man was not really what I was worried about."

She actually laughs at that implication and wraps her arms around your middle titling her mouth towards yours, "Do you actually want it?"

She sounds surprised but not unhappy so you kiss her nose, "With you? Anything."

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," she accuses good-naturedly.

"No," you agree, "But that's not so different for me."

"Ok," she lifts one hand between you to brush her fingers along your jaw, "I didn't expect you to be happy."

"Well I'm a little shocked," you admit, "But God Addison, things have happened that are so much worse. When I came in and you were just standing there... I expected something _bad_."

She sighs, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to seem… this isn't the best thing that's ever happened to me Mark; I'm not going to pretend it is because we're usually not the kind of people who'd rather believe a lie than a truth they don't particularly like very much but it's not the worst. I guess it's all about perspective."

"Look Ad, you don't have to do this if you don't want to," you tell her, "I'm not saying I'm not willing to do it, I'm just… realistically a lot of things are going to have to change and I could understand if you weren't ready for that," you pause, trying to think of the best way to communicate this, "But I am, or I will but whatever happens, I want you to be happy about it because you're the most important thing in all this. Ok?"

She smiles, working her hand beneath your shirt and wriggling her fingers (which are freezing) playfully, "You do know that I might want to have sex less?"

You shake your head at her and let your hands slip against the silk of her blouse until they rest against her hips.

"And that I'll probably be moody and irritable all the time?"

You smirk, because that's not so different to usual.

"And I'll get fat and cry a lot and drag you to antenatal classes early on Saturdays despite your cries of protest?"

"Ad," you press a finger against her lips, "Stop trying to scare me off."

"I'm just telling you what to expect," she sniffs, "And letting you know that you should be positively terrified."

"I am," you confess.

"Good," she responds, standing on tiptoes and rocking her hips against yours. She claps her hands behind your neck as she does and you step backward, surprised by the impact as she presses her face into your neck, "Thank you."

"Does that mean you're actually having a baby?" you mutter, complying with the insistent request implied in her tiny jumping motions and lifting her up off the floor. She wraps her legs around you and you deposit her on the kitchen counter but she clings to you just as tightly as before.

"No," she breathes against your lips, hands flat against your face pulling your mouth to hers. She kisses you and you've always thought there's something soft and sweet about how she does but this seems designed to prove you wrong, all tongues and heat and nervous excitement.

"No," she repeats, meeting your eyes, "_We're_having a baby."

And that was the start of the all-too-brief period of collective pronouns.

Then all of a sudden, it's dark and your mouth is dry because you can't breathe through your nose. Inhaling noisily because of the congestion in your chest, you try to twist sideways so the mucous doesn't run down the back of your aching throat but you realise she's asleep next to you, her head resting against your chest and fingers splayed against your stomach. You move your fingers against her waist absently, trying to ignore the pins and needles in your arm where she's resting her weight on it. You don't really mind because it's warm and she's there and your eyes are closed to it all anyway.

You knock on the bathroom door and call out her name, asking her how long she's going to be. Laughing, she pulls the door open and stands there, dripping from head to toe with her toothbrush wedged between her molars.

"Jus co' an' showah," she manages to say.

You blink at her, because she's completely and utterly _naked_ and very _wet_and the last thing you're thinking about is showering, at least not alone.

"I can wait," you manage, stepping backwards slowly before something awkwardly wet or even worse, uncomfortable happens in your pants.

She smirks at you and pulls the toothbrush from her mouth, turning to spit in the sink before calling over her shoulder, "I'm not using the shower."

"Yes but you're naked."

You didn't really mean to say it that awkwardly but that is the essence of your only thoughts on the matter.

She shrugs, "So?"

"So you're... naked and that's... a good thing usually but," you shrug back at her, "If you don't want to have sex, you shouldn't be inviting me to shower when you're naked. That's all."

She laughs and steps closer, padding onto the carpet outside the bathroom and clasping her arms behind your neck, "Mark?"

She eyes you with a lazy smile and you look down at her, resisting the urge to do more than let your hands rest against her waist, "Yes Addison?"

"The nakedness isn't a big deal ok?"

You shake your head at her, "Maybe not for you."

"Are you uncomfortable with it?" she giggles at you and presses her body against yours, drops of water sinking into your clothing and creating wet footprints on the carpet.

"No," you kiss her chin, "But I could be very soon if you keep doing that."

She rocks her hips against yours and laughs, "I'm sorry babe, but I've been married for 10 years and when you're married you're just... naked," she tells you, "All the time, well, not all the time but a lot of the time and most of the time it doesn't really matter."

"Is that your way of telling me you're not interested in showering with me?" you ask her, raising an eyebrow.

She shakes her hair out behind you and stands on tiptoes to press her mouth against yours, "I never said I wasn't interested in showering with you."

"That doesn't mean you are," you point out quietly, walking her backwards, "Not that I'm complaining you see," you let your hands move up her body and thumb her nipples lightly, "But you haven't really been interested lately so forgive me for being sceptical."

"I'm sorry," she pecks at your upper lip gently and slowly, prolonging the contact, "If it's been bothering you."

"It's ok," you tell her, reaching out to brush away the beads of water sliding down her cheeks and pull her face closer.

She reaches up and pries your hands from her face, sliding her fingers through yours, "Really? Because we used to, well, we used have a lot more sex and ..."

"It's not just about the sex Addison," you reassure her, moving to kiss her again, "Though that's certainly an added bonus."

She slips her hands from yours which suits your purposes exactly because you're trying to resume your tactile exploration of her exposed skin. Smirking at you, she wraps her hands around the hem of your shirt as your thumbs brush against her hips, "Up."

You meet her eyes, confused, "What?"

She smiles, "If I'm going to shower with you, you're going to have to take this off."

You tug the shirt over your head yourself and throw it on the floor. You know she'll complain about that later but for now she brushes her chest against yours. Her skin is still warm from the shower and she presses her parted lips against yours, breathing heavily against your mouth but not-quite-kissing you.

"Tease," you accuse, mumbling.

She laughs, low and seductive and you can tell she's in one of those moods; the ones when you think she feels as attractive and amazing and fuckable as you think she is. "I'm not teasing," she whispers, sliding the pads of her fingers down your arms before setting to work unfastening your belt. Seconds later there is the purr of a zipper unfastening and she makes fists around two layers of clothing, yanking down insistently.

"Help me out a little," she demands, because you're still standing there unintelligently staring at her, unable to believe that she's here and that she wants this.

You step forward and she steps backward until she's pressed up against the sink. Pressing her lips to yours quickly she turns briefly and busies herself with logistics, rearranging her ridiculous array of products that you don't understand the function of to allow her room to sit. On one level it's strange, because before she never would have interrupted sex for the purpose of housekeeping but on another you appreciate the familiarity of the gesture, that she feels comfortable enough to do it. Maybe you're doing something right in all of this and maybe all those pesky insecurities that tell you she's still in love with Derek are unfounded.

She smiles at you, sliding up on the counter and dangling her legs over the side. Her hands are extended, palms up towards you so you take her hands in yours and move them to her hair. She giggles against your mouth as you slide both sets of hands through the dripping, tangled curls and you kiss her nose in apology, briefly stepping back to shed what remains of your clothing.

"Do you want me to primp for you?" she smirks, eyeing you flirtatiously and fluffing her wet hair about. Drops of water cascade in all directions, sliding down the mirror and hitting your cheeks.

You grin at her and step closer again. Her hands find both sides of your face and brush away the water she flicked you with. Tugging at your face, she brings her lips to yours, sliding her hands along your neck to rest against your shoulders.

"I like this naked thing," you tell her, tugging at her ear with your teeth and tracing patterns along her thighs.

She laughs in the back of her throat and it sounds somewhere between a giggle and a moan. You're not sure if it's the evaporating water or your fingers on her skin, but she shivers slightly and goosebumps rise, giving texture to the smoothness of her skin.

"I thought you might," she manages breathily, hands stroking the back of your neck and lips parted to capture your bottom one.

The warmth of the shower fades to coolness as the air dries her skin. You bury your face in her shoulder. She smells like shampoo, passionfruit and something else, apricots maybe, and soap; you associate it with a warm, comfortable cleanliness as opposed to the sterile hospital kind. Dropping your lips to her collarbone, you run your tongue along the ridge formed and she runs her palms over your shoulder blades, fingernails just-barely-scratching and causing shivers against your skin.

She slumps over you so her head is resting against yours and hugs you against her a little tighter. You can't move so you listen to the rise and fall of her chest as she sighs and readjusts herself, pushing you backwards as she straightens up to look at you.

She swallows and says simply, "I missed you."

You're unsure of what exactly she means so you nod a little, "I'm sorry; I got held up."

She bites down on her lip and shakes her head, "No. Today, I missed you."

You eye her curiously since you ate breakfast with her this morning and dropped her at the hospital; it hasn't even been twelve hours.

"That's silly isn't it?" she continues in a rush, "Because you were here before and you're here now but I," she stares down at your hands which are still resting against her thighs, curling around her legs. She covers them with her own; "Accidentally on purpose stole the top of your scrubs when I was doing the laundry and ... it smells like you and I missed you."

You smile in amusement and she narrows her eyes at you, "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not," you tell her, kissing the side of her frown, "Don't wrinkle your nose like that; you'll get a permanent crease in the middle."

"You are making fun of me Mark Sloan," she declares, decidedly unamused, "And I know, it's pathetic, it's cheesy but I'm allowed to be the slightest bit sentimental sometimes without you thinking I'm stupid."

"I happen to think it's quite endearing," you inform her, "Stupid, but," you smirk and she raises one hand to slap the side of your arm, "Cute."

She pouts at you, "Do you ever miss me?"

Her lips are a shade between red and pink, faded lipliner still smudges at the edges and she looks so kissable that you can't help yourself. You move your hands to her lower back, pulling her against you and kissing her until she's leaning against your hands, back perfectly arched and hair causing droplets of water to slide through the steam fogging the mirror.

"Yeah," you murmur as you thumb the side of her mouth gently, cupping her face with your palm and realising it's true, "All the time."

She smiles, a genuine smile that lifts her entire face, and stretches her legs out, curling one around your back and digging her heel in insistently until you step closer.

"Mark," she says, low and sultry and eyeing you off with brilliant blue irises dark with lust but dancing with something simple like joy, "I'm not just interested in showering with you. I'd actually like to have sex with you against the wall as well."

You love her like this.

She laughs when you kiss her again, groaning against her mouth and muttering something about almost believing in a God. She folds her arms behind your head, elbows resting against your shoulders and presses her lips against your neck softly, "Not that this religious epiphany isn't flattering but could we adjourn to that shower of ours?"

"Ours?" you slide your hands from where they rest against her waist down her back and she wriggles forward, resting her weight against you until you wedge your hands beneath her and lifting her.

"What's mine is yours," she whispers open-mouthed, her eyes wide with the thrill and fear of being carried. She laughs a little as you spin around, grabbing your shoulders tighter and squealing.

"Relax," you tell her, "Contrary to your own ridiculous and inherently female belief, you're not heavy."

"I know," she murmurs, and you step into the shower, feeling her loosen her grip as you let her weight rest against the wall, "I trust you."

She clutches at your shoulder with one hand and moves the other to grope for the taps, sending a shower of lukewarm water over half of both of you that gradually becomes hotter as she adjusts the temperature.

She smiles at you and her eyes flutter open and closed as the spray drips down her face, "Ok?"

You smirk at her, sure she can feel the beginnings of an erection pressing into her hip, "More than ok."

She raises an eyebrow and looks almost _hungry_, "You have no idea how much I want this."

You smirk even more. God the woman can be good for your ego.

"I think I might," you tease, slipping your tongue between her lips until she groans insistently against your mouth and rocks her hips forward against yours, her shoulders still pressed against the wall.

You lean closer her to her body in order to whisper in her ear, collecting the waterdrops hanging precariously from her jaw with your tongue, "Because I think I might want you more."

Her chest brushes against yours, nipples hard from arousal or cold or both and then one of her hands is firmly pushing you backwards. She grins flirtatiously and looks up at you from beneath her watercoated eyelashes, the pad of her index finger tracing slow circles against your own nipple. You feel yourself getting harder and the tension in your stomach becomes more unbearable as she murmurs, "I'd tell you how much I want you if I couldn't show you but," she grins, "Touch me. Then you can feel how wet you make me."

God she can be a slut and you love every bit of that perfect red mouth, especially when she says things like that.

"Addison Montgomery," you admonish quietly, shifting her body until you're appropriately positioned between her legs, "Who taught you to talk like that?"

She throws her head back against the tiles and pushes her hips forward against you, until your erection parts the folds in her skin and smears the wetness found their against her clit, "You did Mark, so please, just..." she pauses, blushes a little and you love her all the more because she can't bring herself to say 'fuck me' sober, "I want you, now."

You push yourself into her and let her body slide down the wall a little over you at the same time, letting gravity do some of the work. She gasps at the contact so you steady her against the wall, looking at her with some degree of concern until she raises an eyebrow.

"Ok?" you ask.

Her mouth curls upward at the sides and you feel her muscles twitch around you, "Mmm, oh God, yes."

"I see you're becoming religious too," you manage to point out for the sake of banter, moving a little faster and watching her eyes slip shut, listening to the involuntary hum of appreciation in her throat. You kiss both her eyelids lightly and breathe over her lips until she kisses you, sliding her tongue along your bottom lip and nibbling at it gently.

Your hand steadies her against the wall, but you have to keep readjusting its position because the water is making her skin slick. Your other meets her body where yours does, fingers rubbing against her slowly. The two different tempos are obviously cause of some discomfort because she opens her eyes and digs her fingernails into your neck.

"Faster," she demands, impatient and horny and beautiful so you don't demand ettiquette and simply comply with her request.

You feel her body tensing in anticipation and she keeps making tiny shrieking noises and you roll the sensitive flesh between thumb and forefinger. The sounds she makes cause tiny grunts each time you exhale and they do something where your body meets hers and nothing for the tightness in your own stomach. You keep expecting her to cry out and collapse against you; you're just starting to worry that you won't last and she's panting a little, breathless and trembling, which is when you realise she's determined to hold out.

You press your lips to hers and mumble against them, moving your fingers in faster, harder circles against her clit and causing a sharp intake of air before you even speak; "Come with me Ad."

She groans loudly and lets her head fall backwards so you kiss her chin, thrusting into her a little more forcefully and trying to control yourself because you don't want to hurt her. In response she tenses her legs, wrapping them around you more tightly and pulling her body closer to yours.

You let your head drop to her shoulder and close your own eyes, feeling your stomach relax as orgasm overtakes you. She is shuddering around you so dramatically that you can feel it in her legs and arms and her lips tremble as she tries to kiss you, still exhaling in a series of high-pitched 'ohs' as she does. You manage to say her name in response, low and breathless and thick with emotion, "Addison."

She inhales so sharply and sniffs, so you think she might be crying but you can't bring yourself to move. She lets her head fall forward and rests it against yours, pulling one hand from your neck to wipe at her eyes, "Oh God Mark."

You move your fingers against her side, tracing the curve between her waist and her hip fondly as she composes herself.

"Hey Ad," you say, twisting your face to look up at her.

She bites down on her lip and smiles as you meet her eyes, "Hey."

"You ok?"

She nods and kisses your forehead lightly, "I'm fine. I'm fine."

You turn your face back to hide in her shoulder and drag your teeth over her skin lightly, "Then why are you crying?"

"Because," she whispers, "This is so... you just," she swallows, "You just made me feel something I thought I'd forgotten."

You grin into her shoulder but can't bring yourself to open your eyes, "It hasn't been that long."

She laughs quietly and hugs you closer; you both stand in silence for a long moment under the running water.

"I want it to just be me," she says suddenly, still wedged against the tiles and you pull back to read her expression.

"Addison?" you prompt her to continue.

"I," she swallows nervously and sighs before continuing, "I know things are different now but before," she pauses, considering her words, "Before we were having a baby we weren't really together, or at least, we never talked about it so I guess you were, when you slept with other women, I guess that was your right. But I," she licks her lips nervously; "I want it to just be me now."

You weren't certain she knew about the other women, not that there were many, but you lower her to the ground gently and reach out to adjust the taps until the water is warm again, pushing her beneath the stream of water and cupping your hand to wash away some of the stickiness between her legs. Her body jolts at the contact, and you smile at the small tremors beneath your fingers but she slumps against you and rests her face on your shoulder, looking up at you slightly terrified.

"Mark," she demands an answer timidly and you realise you haven't yet spoken.

She closes her eyes and tilts her face upward towards the warm water momentarily and you kiss her under the shower; water mingling in your mouths between your tongues.

"It was always you Ad," you confess quietly, "And if it's what you want, then I promise you it'll only be you."

She nods, relieved.

"But the converse is also true," you add, "If we're going to do this, if this is what you want..."

She presses a finger to your lips and smiles coyly, "This is what I want. I want us to be together – properly, actually together – which means it's just you and me or," she runs her fingers through your hair absently, "Us. Ok? And I feel... better with you. This is the closest to happiness I've felt in a long time. So please," she rests her face against your shoulder and you hug her against you tightly, "I promise it's only you; I haven't with anyone else and I won't. Not even," she sucks in a breath, "Derek. So please, I know I'm not perfect and neither are you but we can do this."

You kiss her, long and hard and full of promise because in that moment, you feel excited about the future in a way you haven't since you were twenty-five years old.

Your breath catches but there's the haze between wake and sleep and you can't tell if it's in your throat or your nose. The sheets are clinging uncomfortably to your body so you move to push them away but realised they're tucked beneath her side. Sighing, you absently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear; the colour is vibrant strawberry but you would swear it's honey blonde or maybe it's just your memories blurring together, a moment of deja vu. You're glad she's forgotten about the argument but some part of your mind things the argument may have been long since surpassed by far more dramatic ones. You yawn and shuffle against the pillows.

You've been engaged in a good-natured debate about where to live and when to move for the past few days. She wants you to move into the brownstone which does, admittedly, make some sense. Your apartment is far too small for two adults and another growing human being. In terms of value, both of you own expensive bits of real estate and you have suggested moving somewhere else entirely but she always pouts and tells you she 'loves this house'; whether that's true or she still loves what it represents you don't ask because you don't really want to know. The fact remains that it's your best friend's house; she's your best friend's wife and the overall feeling of intrusion makes it difficult to seriously consider the idea. There are reminders of Derek everywhere at the brownstone and it feels strange to you that he's not here, figuratively and literally. You don't tell Addison that you miss him because you know she must as well and you don't want to learn the motives behind her firm attachment to the house.

You're still thinking about last night's heated discussion of the issue (since something has to be done about it soon, preferably before she starts showing because that will be enough to deal with all on its own without the added stress of moving house), leaning against the kitchen counter and staring out the front window introspectively when you hear the repeated slap of her heels echoing in the foyer as she cautiously picks her way down the stairs.

"Good morning," she smiles widely and plants herself in front of you, too close to be ignored though you didn't look up when she walked in.

"Hey," you respond, looking up and meeting her eyes.

"You're mad at me," she accuses, rocking from side to side and looking at you with pleading eyes, "Don't be. Please."

You tap her nose and laugh at her, "I'm not mad at you. I'm just thinking."

She smirks, "Then kiss me good morning."

"You're in a good mood," you remark, after you press your lips to hers chastely and she pulls down on your collar until you open your mouth against hers. Several moments later and she's grinning at you, fingering the fabric of your shirt and her previously perfect lipstick is smudged against the side of her mouth.

"That's because it's my favourite day of the week," she winks at you and you loosely knot your arms around her waist because she hates it if you ruin her clothing so early in the day.

You grin at her, "Wednesday is your favourite day of the week?"

"Mmmhmm," she rests all her weight against your collar and shuffles her feet, trying to spin you around playfully, "Do you know why?"

"No," you play along, "Why?"

"Because there's a great plastic surgeon that does a session at the hospital on Wednesdays," she says, "And he always brings me lunch."

"Oh, so you're just in it for the food?" you feign a wounded look.

"Speaking of food," she perks up a little more, "Can you bring me a turkey and cranberry sandwich with capers on it? I don't even know why I want to eat that but I do."

You wrinkle your nose, "Sure."

She smiles widely, "Thank you. So, what were you thinking about so early in the morning?"

You shrug, "Just where we're going to live again."

She sticks out her bottom lip, "Babe, we've talked about this. You can move in here and..."

"Addison," you interrupt her because she's said all this before, "This is _Derek's_house."

She swallows and stares down at where her shoes just barely touch yours; "I know."

"So even if I move in here," you squeeze her waist reassuringly, because she looks so unsure and close to tears, "We... it would just be better to move somewhere of our own in case he," you pause, considering how to phrase it, "Well technically you're still married so you both own the house but if ... you just don't know what's going to happen there Ad, and it would be easier for us if we have to move to do it now, before..."

"Before I'm undeniably pregnant," she finishes your sentences and nods, "I know what you're saying but I'm sure... I don't know where Derek is Mark, but he doesn't seem to have any vested interest in equal division of assets. I've left him messages and given him the number of the divorce lawyer but," she shuffles her feet and bites down on her lip, "He hasn't returned any of my calls."

"I know," you tilt her chin upwards with the back of your palm, "So I just think it would be easier in the long term if we didn't make any decisions that could be interfered with."

"I don't want to move Mark," she lets her head fall against your shoulder and folds her arms around your middle, "How about we make a deal? I'll sort out the divorce papers and make sure everything is ok with the house and you can move in here."

You sigh, "All Derek's things are here Ad. I feel bad about it... I can't."

"Well I'll use my morning off to pack up his stuff," she leans backwards and meets your eyes, blinking pleadingly, "And then you can use your afternoon off to move in. Ok?"

"I just don't..."

"It'll be fine babe," she grins and stands on tip toes in her shoes to kiss you quickly, "Everything will work out. Anyway, I've got to get going. I'll see you at one with my sandwich ok?"

"Yeah," you say superfluously since she's already halfway to the door, leaning against the doorframe and waving flirtatiously, "It's going to work out."

Whether she's oblivious to your reluctance or just unwilling to compromise you don't know. You try to believe her last words and put your concerns out of your mind though, because like most things these days, the subject doesn't appear to be open for debate.

Everything changes so suddenly you think it must not be chronological. She stirs beside you, twists around and pulls the sheets towards her and you shiver, sweat drying on your skin. But you listen to her breathing and yours, made distinictly noiser by the cold, and with the regular rhythm and repititon any disturbance to the scene in front of you are forgotten.

"Doctor Sloan?" Louisa, your receptionist and practise manager, is speaking to you from the front desk; "I've got someone here who wants to see you."

You look up from the referral you're briefly skimming for your 2 o'clock appointment in surprise, "Who is it?"

There is some shuffling on the other end as the receiver is covered and words are exchanged that you can barely hear. Finally Louisa answers, "She says it's a surprise."

Curious, you shuffle the papers on your desk and respond accordingly, "Send her through; if it's who I think it is I'm pretty sure she knows the way."

Louisa laughs a little to herself, "I thought you wouldn't mind being interrupted."

"She's never interrupting," you smile at the she in question as she pokes her head through the door, "Thanks Lou."

"You're welcome," she hangs up and you echo her action seconds later.

"Hi," Addison grins at you, stepping into your office but lingering by the door, rocking from side to side awkwardly, "I had a couple of hours free; thought I'd come and say hi so," she shrugs, "Hi."

"Hi yourself," you smirk at her, "Are you going to come in and say it properly?"

She smirks back and saunters across the room, walking around and sitting on your desk beside the pile of papers you're slowly sorting through during the two hours that are meant to be set aside for lunch, "And how would I do that?"

You spin sideways on the chair and lean backwards, eyeing her thoughtfully, "Hmm, I don't know."

She braces herself on her hands and tosses her hair behind her, folding her legs, "Really?"

You pull yourself closer to the desk and rest both hands on the soft fabric of her skirt, "Now that you mention it, I can think of some ways."

She giggles softly, "What will Lou think?"

"I don't think Lou will know," you smirk at her, slipping one hand beneath the hem of her skirt and skimming your fingers along her thigh, "Unless you think I'm going to make you scream."

"This is how you say hi?" she narrows her eyes at you incredulously.

"Well," you plant a kiss on her left knee and busy yourself trying to unfold her legs, "Only to you of course."

She runs her fingers through your hair and laughs quietly, tugging gently at your collar until you look up at her. She leans down and brushes her nose against yours, "Would you settle for a kiss?"

You try not to sound disappointed but you probably fail hopelessly; "You don't... want to?"

She shrugs ruefully, "I'm sorry babe. Right now, I'm starving for actual food," she winks at you and you shake your head at her, "You brought lunch then?"

She raises the bag clutched in her left hand triumphantly and nods, holding it just out of reach, "But you have to kiss me first."

"With pleasure," you tug at the bottom of her shirt, pulling her forward in a curtain of expensively dyed golden blonde that falls between your faces as your mouths collide. She laughs and pulls back slightly so your push her hair from the tangle of tongues, raking your fingers through it repeatedly as she shuffles forward to deepen the kiss. She unfolds her knees and rests them on either side of your body on the chair, shivering as you let her hair hang loosely behind her and brush your fingers against the silk of her panties beneath her skirt.

She moans quietly against your mouth and sits upright a little to cluck her tongue, "I thought we were eating."

You smirk and she swats your shoulder, "Honestly Mark, most people grew out jokes like that in ninth grade."

You shrug, "Do you really want to eat?"

You rest your head between her knees and blow a stream of warm air against the inside of her thigh.

She puts as much distance as possible between your bodies and leans down to rest her forehead against yours, eyeing you teasingly, "Yes. I do."

She presses her lips against yours briefly and turns to whisper in your ear, lips gently tugging at your ear lobe for emphasis, "And if you're good, maybe I'll want to eat you later."

You run your hands along the curve of her body and snicker quietly, "And you expect me to let you casually throw that out there without a response?"

She lets out a small yelp of surprise when you tug at her wrists until she falls against you, kneeling beside your knees awkwardly. She stands, looking affronted but you refuse to let go of her hands, spinning her around in a small circle and pulling her down onto your lap, gripping her waist with both hands.

"See?" you kiss the back of her neck gently, "Much better than you over there and me over here."

She smirks and leans back against your chest, head falling against your shoulder, "This is a subtle ploy to get into my pants isn't it?"

You kiss her lightly and grin at her, "Of course."

She sighs, looking more serious, "I'm sorry. I guess I just haven't felt like it lately."

You shrug a little, since apparently this is part of the pregnancy thing and it's taking some getting used to but she tends to make up for it well enough. And it's not that you don't enjoy the special attention you just want to have sex with _her_for some inexplicable and, you think, probably deeply emotional reason that you haven't bothered to question much for the fear of discovering things you don't want to know.

"Maybe tonight?" she suggests and you wondered how you got to the point where you were _planning_when to have sex. This is incredibly new and frightening territory.

She slaps your arm where it's folded around her middle, "Don't look like I suggested we watch Gone With The Wind; I know how you feel about that movie."

"It's just," you kiss her nose, "Sort of strange, making plans to have sex like it was dinner or a movie."

She laughs at you, "Mark Sloan, how long have you been single?"

You think about that for a minute, "Probably about ... two years?"

"And how long did you spend with that girl, whatever her name was?"

"Um, a month maybe?" you don't really remember; it wasn't the most life changing relationship experience.

She strokes your fingers with hers absently, "Well I've been married for ten and trust me, sometimes you just... have to make plans."

"This is like the naked thing isn't it?" you kiss behind her ear and murmur it softly.

She snuggles down into your arms and sighs, "Well no. The naked thing is normally for the unplanned times, which we can still have I just thought if you really want to then I..."

You rest your chin on her shoulder, "Addison, if you don't want to then really, it's not a whole lot of fun. They say it takes two for a reason; trust me, I would know."

She smiles, "I'm sure you would. But I do want to, just not now and you might have to," she blushes and looks coy at the same time and it's still a miracle to you how she manages to do that so well, "Encourage me a little."

You trace a slow circle with your tongue, lips pressed against her neck, "That I can do."

"Thanks babe," she whispers, and you should complain about her ridiculous pet names but some part of you finds them endearing rather than annoying. (Another part of you asks if that's what she called Derek but you try to ignore that part of you more often than not.)

"So what brings you here?" you ask as she begins to rearrange her edible purchases on the desk in front of you.

"I just," she shrugs, "Figured you probably hadn't eaten. And it's Friday so you'll be working late. The looking after each other thing works both ways you know," she smiles widely, "Which one did you want?"

"What'd you get?" you ask.

"That one is chicken and sundried tomato with honey mustard," she points, "And that one is essentially a BLT with roast beef on it."

"Well, since you've had a thing for mustard over the past few days," you grin at her, because you did find her eating a grilled cheese with whole seed mustard on Monday night, "You can have that one."

Her eyes light up a little, "Thank you."

You shrug, "Anything to keep you happy."

So she hands you the sandwich and you both chew in silence for a moment before she starts to play with your computer absently, checking your appointments casually.

"Oh," she says flatly, "You put my first antenatal in here."

You lean backwards and look at her, because she sounds less thrilled about that than she should, "You don't want me to come?"

"No you need to come," she murmurs, distractedly, plucking the crust of her sandwich and chewing for a second, "I don't know your medical history."

"I didn't ask if I needed to come," you try not to feel frustrated with her but she does this a lot now; says she wants one thing then acts like she really wants the complete opposite.

"Oh babe I want you there," she twists around and puts both hands on your shoulders, "I just... Lou is going to see this, and Jess and the new one you've got. And Julia," she is referring to your staff: two part-time receptionists, both med students at NYU and your anaesthesiologist.

"Yeah," you shrug at her, "Look, I had to rule my book off ok? Otherwise I'll be working during your appointment. And I had to put in a reason because Lou knows that if I black out an hour or two it's usually just to catch up on paperwork or post-op treatment, return patient calls and that kind of thing so she'll book people anyway if they're desperate ok?"

"We said we weren't going to tell anyone," she counters and her tone has the edge of a snap and half the volume of a yell.

"No," you correct her, "_You_said we weren't going to tell anyone."

"And you agreed," she stands up and walks away from you, "Now everyone here knows and ..."

"And what? You don't want to tell people because you're ashamed of it? Because you don't want people to know that we're together Addison?" you snap at her; you can't help it, sometimes when she's like this it really gets to you. It just encourages those insecurities that tell you she's just with you because she can be and not because she wants to be. No matter what terms of endearment she uses, sometimes you feel as though you're justified in your concerns.

"It's not like that," she snaps back, "It's not like that Mark I just ..."

"Would you at least have the decency to own up to it?" you glare at her, "The actual sentiment offends me less than the way you'll sit here and want to freaking _cuddle_as long as no one knows but as soon as there's the slightest chance someone might find out, you're telling me it's a big drama then deny it when I call you on it."

"This is us," she responds, "This is you and me; not your staff, not the rest of the world at large. Forgive me if I want a chance to work it out with you without being watercooler fodder. I'm not ashamed of you, I'm not ashamed to be pregnant, I just don't want to tell people right now. I just want a chance to get divorced and work everything out before we have to deal with what everyone is going to say about us," she clutches at her fringe and makes a loud, frustrated noise, "God Mark, you visit the hospital once a week, twice maybe if they call you in. Do you know what it's like working there? Do you know what they say about me behind my back? Do you know some of the names I've heard smart ass interns calling me? It's not that I don't care about you, a lot, more than I should care about you because you're Derek's best friend but..." she loses her train of thought and falters for a second, "But just respect my need to feel comfortable with the idea of us privately before we share it with anyone. This is you and me," she repeats, "Just you and just me."

"Just you, your insecurities, your ex-husband and just me," you mutter, which probably doesn't do much for your argument.

She sniffs at you, deciding that isn't worth dignifying with a response and plucks her sandwich from your desk primly, "I think we both need to spend some time thinking before we continue this discussion," she announces calmly, "So I'm going back to work and we can talk about this tonight."

You grab her wrist and stand abruptly, holding her still momentarily so you can kiss her cheek, "Bye Ad."

She's still angry but you see the lines around her eyes soften slightly, "I'll see you later."

You sink back into the chair and eye the half eaten sandwich with some degree of disgust, no longer hungry and feeling utterly uncertain about what just happened. You yelled at her, she yelled at you – there was definitely yelling – but what exactly was said and what it _meant_is unclear. She's obviously annoyed that you suggested she felt guilty for being with you but whether that's because she was telling the truth, believes what she said to be the truth or is just angry that you read her too well for her liking you don't know.

"Doctor Sloan?" Lou is on Line 1 again.

"Yes?"

"Your 2 o'clock is here."

You push those thoughts aside with one last remark made quietly and to yourself, "There go my evening plans."

You curl your hand into a fist against your mouth to suppress the cough but it comes anyway, choking your chest and causing an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Everything about the experience is uncomfortable.

Wednesday's are her favourite day of the week and it's ridiculous that you're thinking that because another woman's hand is wrapped around your wrist and she's pulling you into one of the private rooms in NICU, closing the blinds and giggling softly.

You push the door closed behind you but before you can lock it, she shoves you backwards against it and presses her chest against yours, smirking. You're still not sure how you managed to convey the message that you were interested in sex but you've never been the kind to complain or say no and besides, it seems to be the only message you can ever communicate to a woman properly.

So you take the hint in her teasing smile and kiss her, not bothering with the pretence of gentleness since you're in a hospital and there's a baby about two feet away that can't breathe for itself so there can't be any misunderstanding that this is more than lust. She's got sandy reddish brown hair; you try not to notice that it's not soft like Addison's used to be and concentrate on kissing her back. She's pushy, all tongues and soft moans and it's a little too much too soon in your opinion but then again, you have surgery in twenty minutes so that may be a blessing rather than a curse. As you pull upwards at the top of her scrubs you mentally take note of her name. Charlene. You probably won't remember. It doesn't really matter to you.

"Mmm," she mumbles, falling away to rest on her feet once more and opening her eyes slowly, "How shall we do this?"

You smirk at her and walk her backwards towards the opposite wall, hands running over her bare stomach. She leans back against your arms and uses her weight to turn you around though, and suddenly you're the one pressed up against the wall being kissed furiously.

You breathe for a second when she sucks on your lower lip, pouting up at you. You squeeze at her chest and smile in amusement when her eyes widen.

"I heard you and Addison Shepherd were an item," she whispers into the kiss, in a low flirtatious voice, "Guess I was wrong."

You lean back against wall when she tries to press her mouth against yours again; your head makes a dull thud when it makes contact with the plasterboard and you don't move for a second.

She looks at you, breasts clad in tight and cheap red lace filling your hands, and her intent is obvious but you just find yourself thinking that Addison would never wear something that would irritate the skin of your palms so much.

Her hands slide beneath your scrubs and you're about to tell her to stop because you've suddenly lost all interest when the door opens. And Addison is standing there looking at you and you're looking at her because you were staring over Charlene's shoulder, trying to figure out how to get out of the potentially awkward situation and now she's pressing a hand against her mouth, shocked and embarrassed and hurt.

"Addison," you say.

Charlene steps backwards and disengages her hands, flushing red and groping for her scrub top on the floor.

"Addison," you repeat.

She shakes her head, just barely and the door closes and she's gone.

"Shit," you sigh, leaning back and pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Sorry," the nurse offers lamely, muttering something that sounds like 'bastard' under her breath which you probably deserve so you don't say anything in response, you just listen to her leave wondering what the hell you're going to do. You wait, because you know Addison will be back to check on her patient but when she cautiously pokes her head through the open door and sees you sitting there, listening to the infant's heart monitor with your head in your hands she sniffs and marches straight past you without acknowledging your presence.

"Don't talk to me," she hisses when you open your mouth.

"It didn't mean anything Ad," you murmur softly, standing behind her as she watches her patient clutch at her index finger.

You can see the hairs on her arms stand up in response to your breath on her neck and her whole body tenses but you wrap your hands around her arms just above her elbows hoping that physiology wins out.

"I told you," she begins firmly but her voice wavers mid-sentence, "Not... to talk to me."

"Addison," you whisper.

"Shut up," she yells, whirling around and pushing you backwards, "Just shut up because you have no idea, no idea how much I want you to ... damn well hold me right now and tell me that it was nothing and that it doesn't matter and you have no idea how much I want to believe that but you know what Mark? It's never nothing. It's always," she pauses, her anger fading into sadness and tears welling in her eyes, "It's always something. It was never nothing and you're an idiot if you had to hurt me to figure that out."

She storms out after that and the next time you see her, she's sitting at the bar you used to frequent as interns. It's dark and a little dingy; certainly not the finest establishment on the island of Manhattan. The drinks are cheap and nasty and you don't think you've been there in years but tonight you needed some connection to easier times when work was tough but at least your personal life consisted of simple, impersonal sexual encounters and not much else.

You sit beside her and sigh, "You still come here?"

She takes a long gulp of her amber coloured drink and glowers at you, "Not often."

The words slur together as she absently tries to order another drink. The bartender shakes his head at her and sets another glass down in front of her; you get the impression this is a repeat of a scene that's been frequently recurrent tonight.

"Addison," you begin, "About this afternoon..."

"Don't," she interjects.

"At least let me explain," you glare at her.

"Just go and fuck her Mark," she manages to say relatively soberly, "Or go and fuck yourself but don't for a second think that you're fucking me. I fucking hate you for always making me think we have a chance and then so thoroughly changing my mind."

She slams her glass down against the bar top and falls forward against it, resting her head in her hands and massaging her temples.

"Fuck," she adds quietly, "Fuck, I feel like such a fucking idiot."

You put a hand on her arm, "Addison, let me take you home."

She shrugs it off and glares at you, "Fuck you Mark. Just go. Just leave me alone."

"I said I wouldn't do that," you remind her because you did promise that you'd always take care of her no matter what happened.

"You also said you wouldn't," she looks up at you, liquor-clouded eyes meeting yours with a cold and disdainful stare, her pupils contracted into pin pricks and her irises icy blue; "You said you'd only fuck me Mark. Yet there you are, in the middle of my favourite afternoon with a fucking slut of a nurse."

And you know she's drunk because she's swearing like a sailor and she only ever does that if she's about to pass out.

"You're drunk Addison," you suggest the idea to her gently, "And it's bad for you and it's bad for the baby so..."

"There is no baby," she laughs a little as she says it and the laughs turn into quiet sobs, "Not since this afternoon."

You look at her, surprised at how much that hurts and how much you don't want it to be true, "What do you mean?"

"I," she waves her glass around, still crying and hiccupping on her tears, choking on the air she's trying to inhale, "Went to an abortion clinic today; how fucking ridiculous is that? Gynaecologist can't use fucking birth control properly. Neonatal surgeon extraordinaire terminates unwanted pregnancy. How fucking tragically ironic."

"You never said you didn't want it," is the only answer you can think of.

"I did," she retorts, sloppily tipping the remainder of her drink on your shirt, "I did want it because you fucking fooled me into thinking that you did and that we'd be happy. What the fuck? You're _Mark_. How did I ever fucking forget that you'd never miss the chance to fuck anything?"

"It wasn't like that," you argue, thinking that maybe it's time you tried this honesty thing even though you know from past experience that explaining won't make anything any better because there's no way in hell she'll understand the message you're trying to convey, "I wasn't going to; what you saw, that was it. I couldn't do it. I couldn't because all I could think about was you."

"I'm going to Seattle," is all she says.

"Addison," you begin lamely, staring at her tear-stained face, "Don't. Don't go."

"I'm going to Seattle," she repeats, "You're not a good enough reason to stay."

"And _he's_a good enough reason to go?" you counter incredulously, "I... Addison, I know I screwed up ok but it was... it was one time and I know that's what people say, I know that's always what people say but," she recoils at your words, "But it's the truth and you can't go."

"Why?" she challenges, tossing her hair over her shoulder and swaying dramatically on the bar stool.

"I love you Ad," you grab her wrist and yank her body until she's leaning against you; "I love you more than he ever did."

"Fuck you," she breathes heavily over your lips, pulling her hand from yours and you can't quite tell if it's because you just insulted Derek or for another reason entirely, "You don't fucking love me Mark," she continues, pushing herself to her feet, "You never, ever loved me."

Her breath is like a whisper against your face when you stir and she's awake, stroking the side of your head repeatedly and cooing softly so you think you must have been talking in your sleep.

"It's ok," she whispers sleepily, burrowing down into your neck, "I'm not going anywhere."

And there's something wrong about all the conflicting images and sensations; you're disorientated and confused and she's here and she's not and it's warm but you miss her, more than you ever thought you would. After years of loneliness that you never quite connected with her absence you realised after months to reflect on wasted chances you missed her weight pinning down your arm until you can't feel your fingers. You can't figure out what's going on. You shift a little in the dark and hug her against you. She's your best mistake, your worst fear and your favourite way to be miserable.


	10. There's Noone Else To Blame

**Chapter Ten: And The Worst Part Is There's No-one Else To Blame.**

You're surprised to find her eyeing you curiously when you open your eyes proper, the pale morning sunlight that precedes a vivid sunrise just peeking under the heavy hotel curtains. The colours seem to fade into the shadows and everything is dull except her vivid red curls.

"Hi," she says shyly, propping her face on her hand.

You reach out and brush her hair from her eyes, smiling at her, "Hi," you swallow and something tightens in your chest; it's a nervous, insecure sort of feeling, an ache, and you hate the feeling but it's because of that that you sound genuinely surprised as you observe her, "You're here."

She presses her lips together and nods slowly, twisting towards you until her head rests against you arm, "Yeah. You were dreaming."

"Did I wake you?" you absently pull your arm out from between you and wrap it around her sheet-clad shoulders, tugging the covers with her until she's half-sprawled on top of you in a cocoon of blankets.

She grins, "Once or twice, but it's ok."

"I'm sorry," you turn your face and raise a fist to your mouth, stifling the cough which interrupts your sentence.

She shakes her head, "Really Mark, it's fine but," she looks a little wistful, "Do you dream about me often?"

You smirk at her and she slaps the wad of blankets engulfing your shoulder with great difficulty, since she has a similar wad engulfing hers.

"That's not what I meant," she whispers softly, kissing you in much the same way and sighing as you pull her hair back from her face, running your fingers through it.

"Why'd you dye it?" you ask her, completely out of context with the current conversation but to you it seems logical.

She shrugs, looking ambivalent, "I don't know; I needed a change."

"I love you like this," you tell her, fingering her bangs fondly. The words aren't quite right but your voice is scratchy and sore so you can't really be bothered trying to think of a more subtle way to phrase it. It's true anyway; maybe not a wise thing to admit but you figure you haven't got a lot left to lose at this point.

She pulls backwards just the slightest bit and regards you curiously, "You never said you didn't like my hair blonde."

You make a fist around the curls and tug her mouth to yours, kissing her slowly and parting her lips with your tongue. She's breathing heavily over your mouth, both eyes still closed, so you murmur lightly in her ear, "I did like it. I just love you like this."

"Oh Mark," she says it like you're hurting her, pained and wary and this is why you hate mornings, "Please let's..."

"Don't," you interrupt, "Addison," you clutch at her wrist with the hand that isn't tangled in her hair, "Don't."

She swallows and nods against your shoulder, "Ok, ok I'm sorry I just..."

You stroke her hair absently and let your eyes slide closed again, "It's ok."

"I want to say I love you," she whispers sleepily, "But I don't want to be lying. And I'm so sorry, so sorry to have to say that but I can't... I don't want you to think that it means everything. It means something," she alludes to a conversation you would have thought she had forgotten; it was so long ago, "Just not everything."

You hug her against you a little tighter and sigh, "I don't think it means anything."

"It does," she breathes, sounding wounded, "How can you say that Mark? Do you really think that I would... it means something."

You open your eyes and push her upright until you can stare at her, the eye contact intense and piercing and you see her eyes narrow to echo your own expression.

"What does mean Addison?" you challenge her.

She snaps, eyes burning with anger, "It means that you hurt me. It means that sometimes I want to pretend that you make me feel like you used to, that I can trust you, that you're different because you're with me. It means that sometimes I want to pretend I was enough," her teeth sink down into her bottom lip and suddenly she looks more terrified than defiant. Immediately you regret your tone; you curl your fingers around her upper arms and squeeze gently as she says, "It means that I don't know what I'm doing any more."

"I'm so sorry Ad," you say with all the force behind the ache in your chest creeping into your tone; you hope she can hear how much you wish this was different, that it had all happened differently, "I'm just... sorry that I hurt you, sorry that I didn't call you, sorry that we're both so screwed up and miserable because you're amazing and you deserve better, but I," you sigh, lean back against the pillows, try to ignore the throbbing between your temples, "I don't think I'm making sense."

"Sometimes," she tells you gently, "Being sorry doesn't change the facts of the matter. And I want to forgive you and I want to forgive Derek; I want to move past, move on, stop letting it affect my life and my decisions but I'm... not ready yet. Some days I don't think I ever will be and most days," her fingers sink into her palms, fists resting against your chest, "Most days I don't think it will ever be the same again."

"That doesn't mean we can't be happy," you tell her, hands wandering along her shoulders as you tug down on the sheet, cupping her breasts in your palms.

She sighs in response, leaning forward to brush her lips against yours lightly, "I have to go Mark."

You pull back slightly but not enough because you're not really committed to the follow through, "I know."

"Hey," she pulls backward suddenly after briefly resting her forehead against yours, "You're hotter than usual today."

If you weren't feeling so crap you might consider making a joke about that. Her cool palm presses against your forehead and she wriggles sideways. You swallow and jerk back, away from her this time, suddenly remembering that your illness is probably making your breath even more terrible than it usually is this time of morning.

"Have you been taking the drugs?" she sounds suspicious.

You look at her incredulously, "I prescribed them for myself. Of course I'm taking them."

She sighs, "I should be letting you heal."

You try to raise an eyebrow at her, but you can't quite perfect the motion, "Instead of using me for your pleasure?"

She smiles and looks amused but a faint blush rises to her cheeks. "Something like that," she murmurs.

"Well," you sit up and say as you stretch, "I feel better."

She wrinkles her nose, "When was the last time you showered?"

Sniffing yourself you make a face, "I've been in bed for two days."

"Well," she teases, "I suggest you bathe. I'm going to go do the same."

You keep your voice light because you're not serious when you say, "We could save water."

She quirks an eyebrow at you, perfectly executing the incredulous expression you attempted earlier, "Mark Sloan, environmentalist extraordinaire."

You pull her closer suddenly and hug her to your sides, your arm resting around her shoulders as you bury your nose in her hair. It's easy for you both to slip into bantering daylight mode but you're not sure when you'll be allowed to take advantage of a situation like this again. "Bye Ad," you offer simply, and she leans into your side, head resting on your shoulder for a moment.

Then she swallows back something sentimental (you can see that much in her guarded expression when she slowly stands, pulling the sheet with her, and meets your eyes), "I'll... see you later Mark," she responds, trying to lighten the tenor of the conversation, remove the undertones.

"I," you hesitate, "But not tonight."

It's not really a question, but it hovers somewhere between a suggestion and a request.

"No," she agrees with a sigh, "That's probably for the best."

With a shrug you stand and wander towards the bathroom, keen on taking that shower now that you've realised you feel so unclean.

You can feel her eyes on you, watching you and probably waiting for some response so you turn once most of your body is shielded by the door frame and throw a reassuring smile in her direction, "It's ok," you state, more confidently that you feel, "We always did suck at just friends."

She rolls her eyes and gestures to her outfit, which makes her look like a sorority sister at a toga party, "Maybe it takes trial and error."

"Truce," you declare, "See you."

She nods and waves you towards the shower saying, "I'll let myself out."

So you leave her fishing for her clothes which are strewn about the bed in a scattered but defined pile and adjust the hot water until the temperature makes the back of your palm turn red. You step under the water, deaf and blind with your eyes closed and allow it to invigorate your skin. It's too hot; it scalds your shoulders, makes your fingers turn an angry red when you peek at them through the corners of your eyes.

You don't care.

When you exit the bathroom you smell better but her clothes are gone, the naked carpet glaring at you. There's still the slight smell of her though, when you sink down onto the bed to pull on the sweatpants still piled beside the nightstand.

Eyes wider than they have been in a while you consider your surroundings and realise, abruptly, that hushed whispers find your ears from behind your door. You recognise the cadence of her voice as it rises ever so slightly in frustration and his intonation as he replies in kind. Curiously, you allow yourself to cross the floor and lean against the cold wooden door; it soothes your burning skin, still pink from the combination of the heat and pressure of the water.

You can hear their voices now, muffled by the door but audible except at intervals.

"What more do you want?" she says, "I, I'm _sorry_ Derek, I really am but I can't _be_ any more sorry than I already am. So," she hisses her next, "Just stop. It takes _two_. And even if you were going to act like a saint, say you didn't do it first or you were in love as though that absolves you, you did it too. So-" she's lost midsentence and you wait for his rebuttal, because you know she rarely finds herself again in time to continue a tirade.

"What more do I _want_?" he raises his voice, "I _want_ to come here and not find you sneaking off like a teenager doing the walk of shame. Jesus Addison."

"That has so little to do with you Derek Shepherd, and you have No Right," she snaps it with capitals, like that, "None, to tell me who I can and cannot sleep with or pass judgement."

"Oh you want _judgement_ Addison?"

"NO," she interjects, so loudly you're tempted to remind them that unlike the rest of the medical professional, normal human beings may still be sleeping at this side of a full sunrise, "NO I don't because YOU HAVE NO RIGHT to say these things to me. You, you who said you wanted me out of your life, who left another woman's underwear in your pockets for me to find, who made me into this _person_, this Seattle version of myself who was willing to accept your _shit_ for an entire year before I stood up for what I deserved."

You smirk at that. Addison Montgomery swearing sober, careful Derek.

"What you _deserved_? From me. After what you did to _me_ you're talking about what you _deserved_?"

"Christ Derek, if that was how you felt why stay with me at all? If you... no, you know what, screw this. I don't have to explain myself to you. If you can't grow up and get over it then I'm..."

"What Addison?" he retorts, nastily but jealousy has always been especially ugly on him, especially when underscored by self-righteous anger, "You're going to screw him again to get back at me?"

You silently resolve not to tell him later that that's not why she sleeps with you. You can take it like a man and resist the urge.

"Oh yes Derek really, EVERYTHING _IS_ actually about you, I'm SORRY, I should have remembered that a divorced newly single woman couldn't have sex with a similarly unattached man _unless_ you had something to do with."

"Considering the players in question are my ex-wife and best friend," he shouts in his own defence.

You hear her angry groan, count to ten, and wait for her to resume her diatribe, so curious as to how this is all going to end because you have a morbid fascination with car crashes.

"I am not going to let you punish me anymore," she says, bitingly calm, "I'm selling the brownstone. The contract settles next week. I've talked to the accountant about transferring half the profit to your account. I'm making a trip to New York to retrieve what's left of my things, but I wanted to know," she pauses, businesslike, "If you wanted any of the furniture. Otherwise it's going with the house. We'll ask for more."

You can hear the slump of his shoulders in his tone, "No. I don't want any of it."

"The house in the Hamptons goes to auction next week then," she manages to clip out through her teeth, like a typewriter talking, "I'm also giving you half."

He must open his mouth then, you hear a hesitant sound before she cuts him off with some finality, "We jointly owned the properties. Regardless of what happened, in the settlement you gave them to me. You can be responsible for subdividing the blame and assigning us and Mark our own share of guilt but _I'm_ responsible for the property. You're getting half."

"Addison," he says, misdirected pain showing it's true self in his voice which probably isn't a tactic knowing Derek but you know this will hurt her more than all the anger he could have thrown at her, "I... I know I have no right."

Her voice softens immediately; you can imagine her faint smile as she jokes, "Damn right you have no right."

"But, what are you..."

The pause is longer than you might have liked.

"Some mistakes," she stammers, you bristle, "It's."

"Complicated," Derek supplies, no question mark follows.

"Yes," she agrees, "Mark always... oh Derek, I've loved you so much more, so much better, for so much longer than anyone. You have to know that, you were there and you must know that no one could fake that kind of happiness," her voice has the edge of tears that you always seem to bring out in her intonation, "But."

"Always a but Addison," he interjects sadly.

"I was in love with him Derek, like you," she swallows the words, then reconsiders, "You love Meredith. It's not the same," she continues, awkwardly, "But I know you do love her. And that's a new thing, for you. Please try to understand that it was never a new thing with Mark. I'm not melodramatic enough to try and tell you now that I loved him all along, I didn't, but him and I," she sighs, "It was the first year of medical school Derek, and he changed me in lots of ways."

"I don't know what you're saying," he offers, at a loss, "I."

"He didn't forget to call," she says evenly.

"How long?" he returns.

She sighs, "Just once, we didn't speak for a long time."

"How long now?"

Her tone changes slightly, has more of an edge, "Derek, you have no business asking me this, but I'm going to tell you anyway and this is my final peace offering. Like I said, I will not let you hold this over my head anymore. No one is going to hold this over my head anymore because I," she sighs, slows down, and finishes matter-of-factly, "I can't change the past. It's done, and so am I."

He mumbles agreement quietly, which you have to deduce because you don't really hear anything. She continues though, so you assume.

"Mark is easy to be with. He is... he knows me, and I trust him and we are or were or are still despite it all," she pauses, you can see her hand gestures in your head, "Friends. Just like you are Derek. You'd like to deny it but he still gets you and he, he gets me and he gets me better than even you did most days. We shared a lot of things, you and I, but Mark," she sounds exasperated now, "For better or worse, and I'm leaning towards worse because he always did use his talents for evil, Mark always knew things about me before I knew them myself. He told me I was going to marry you," she offers this as proof though you really don't think this proves you're anything special in terms of perception. They were a done deal. "And it's easy to forget what happened between all of us with him, because we were never finished. Derek, you and I had years, had time to grow apart. We made a go of it. We realised what we could be. With Mark there was always this sense of potential. And in my youthful wisdom I had the sense to stay clear of that, but now. For all 20 years has taught me, I've regressed terribly when it comes to saying no to Mark Sloan."

"Addison," is Derek's thoughtful response, "I. What am I supposed to say?"

She responds firmly, "Nothing. Because it's not your right to ask me to explain myself anymore; I'm not your wife, you make it clear again and again that you don't even want to try to be friends, if that's even possible after sleeping beside someone for 14 years. It's not your place. I gave you up. Why can't you give me up Derek?"

"Does it have to be to him?"

She laughs at his growl, "You know sometimes I'm convinced this is more a pissing contest between the two of you than anything else. Mark and I are not together Derek and I am not a possession to be surrendered to the next owner. I reiterate: I am sorry for the part I played in this, but any issue you have with him is your issue, any issue you have with me is your issue. And the issues I have with Mark," she pauses for air, "Those are mine. Not yours. You have plenty of your own to deal with without our... for so many reasons what happened between Mark and I is a lot more complicated and a lot less resolved than what happened to our marriage. The feelings are less clear cut, the intentions on the whole a lot less honourable and the outcomes a lot more messy."

"So I've heard," is his response, laden with implications.

"So you can imagine Derek," she doesn't sound angry, just sad, so sad, like she's aged more than she though she ever would and doesn't quite know how it happened, "What that did to me."

"Do you know what it did to him?" he counters, which you're surprised at but maybe modern reproduction being the minefield it is, men have to stick with men, solidarity and all that.

"It wasn't easy. I know that. I know I was right, but that doesn't mean it was easy. And I know he thinks," you listen intently for this next, feeling not-at-all guilty for your methods of collecting information, "We could have done it. He thinks it would've worked out in the end. Maybe he's right. Maybe I made a mistake. I don't think so."

"Do you think it would have been different if we'd had kids?" he asks.

"Maybe," she answers, "But I've seen staying together for the children first-hand Derek. It's not the prettiest."

"No, I know."

"And I can't keep living a life of what ifs and resentment Derek," she lowers her voice; her words are so gentle. You wonder why she's so convinced he's breakable and you're made of steel. "It just has to be over now."

"I know," he swallows; you hear it. "I'm trying to let it go Addison. I'm building bridges but it takes time. It... so many things have changed for me. I'm in this place, this place that I never thought I'd be, without the two people who I'd always thought would be there so I'm doing the best I can. When you keep dropping these revelations in my lap about you and my best friend it's, it's difficult. It's hard not to wonder if it was really the first time, it's hard not to ask myself how I didn't realise you could be so cruel. It's damn well impossible not to ask if I spent twelve years playing second best because you..." he trails off, sounding guilty, "I know it wasn't. I _know_ it in my mind. But how I feel... that's different."

The sucking sound of hair sliding between her lips as she pulls them together precedes her words, "Derek. I know it's hard. I know, more than anyone else I think, how hard it is."

"We'll keep trying," he vows quietly, "It's got to get easier sometime. And I don't think I'll ever be ready to lose you completely."

"Me either."

"Maybe we need to find ourselves first," he continues philosophically, typically Derek with his bad metaphors and soap opera lines.

Credit to her she keeps a straight face, or she must. You find yourself with the heel of your palm pressed against your mouth to stop the superior smirk turning into a full-force dismissive laugh.

They're quiet for far too long then, which kills your laughter where it sits in your stomach. One last kiss for old times sake then, maybe. It annoys you that you'll never be able to confirm or deny.

"Addison," he says, breaking the silence which makes you uneasy. At least there are no face-sucking noises.

"Derek," she says back.

At the sound of his key slipping into the door you bolt off the floor, surprised and not too keen to be caught eavesdropping. You don't quite make it to the bed though, caught in transit halfway and probably looking guilty as sin.

He eyes you with an expression transiently amused and persistently annoyed.

You just shrug by way of explanation and flop down onto the bed, "In my defence, there was yelling."

"Coffee's cold," he responds, but his shoulders drop and you know you're forgiven.

"So," you state, giving him an opening if he wants one, making noise for the sake of it if he doesn't.

"Yeah," he runs his hands through his hair and sinks down into the chair opposite you. "How much did you hear?"

"How much should I have heard?" you counter, ever the diplomat.

"It doesn't matter," he admits, sounding defeated, "I think that was the end of it."

"Yeah," you echo, "Same to you."

He doesn't voice the question, just looks inquisitive until you elaborate: "Addison. I think she's done with both of us."

He nods.

"Serves us right I suppose," you muse.

"Speak for yourself."

You take a sip of the cold coffee and meet his eyes, meaningfully. No need to waste words on that thought though because you see it mirrored in his expression. He looks slightly pained and rubs at his cheek thoughtfully, like he expects to find something on his face.

"Before you ask," he holds up a hand for emphasis, "Whatever the question is, I don't have an answer at this point in time."

"Good," you respond, "Because I have no idea what to say."

After a silence in which you both take long sips of frigid caffeine he ponders something out loud which you've been wondering about yourself, "I know that sometimes we have no choice in the matter. I know that sometimes things happen that change us whether we like it or not. But right now, I feel so strange. My old self is dead to me, I know that but this new one, it feels wrong. I feel like I'm stuck in this place between who I am and who I will be but it seems like such a leap of faith to make the transition, embrace who I've become. I'm not sure I like myself anymore."

You shrug.

You've never liked yourself much. 


	11. Small Things And A Sunrise

**Chapter Eleven: Small Things And A Sunrise.**

Now that you've stopped drinking cough medicine like it holds the secret to youth your thoughts wander less, you find it easier to slip back into restlessness and ideas that can't be expressed in words. This is how your mind usually works. You're not really one for long rambling paragraphs in your head. Voiceover in movies has always intrigued you because of that.

Your thoughts are, in their natural state, unaffected by sickness and strong medication, more like the smear of a paintbrush than careful cursive from a pen.

Monday comes, inevitably. The temporary truce drawn up between you and Karev at Joe's holds, but only briefly. He gives you his decision without apology, straight in the eyes, proud of himself, "I think I'd prefer shiny and pink." You think he's more a man because of it. If he can resign himself to watching unborn children die for no reason then you begrudgingly respect him for it. You never could; plastics was almost a choice of necessity for you- you couldn't stand watching people die, no matter how many you kept alive.

You aren't fatalistic. You know the future exists (it stands to reason, given the concept of time) and it is dynamic, changing. But some things are certain: everything dies. As a doctor, most are constantly battling with death. You know when to pick your battles. The ceaseless struggle to keep dying people living, which ultimately is always lost, didn't hold your interest for long. There's no fun in playing an intellectual game you can't win.

But that's an excuse really.

The reason you can't stand watching people (especially children) die is simple. It reminds you that one day, it will happen to you. You're a miracle of evolution, an intricate set of cells arranged into tissues, organs, body systems, a _homo sapiens_, a closed system which converts oxygen to carbon dioxide, constantly metabolising, constantly producing waste. The cell membrane forms spontaneously in solution, hydrophobic interactions between molecules are all that's keeping you together. So you know one day, parts are going to stop working, something will go wrong. And no one will be able to do anything for you, the system will stop working, you'll die. Pathology scared you shitless at medical school: the science that held everything together the way it was meant to seemed so tenuous. And yet, while others look at the world under a microscope and see God, you see a blood test suggesting acute myeloid leukaemia and see the cruelty of the Bell curve from a journal of epidemiology.

You don't see Addison much, only a glimpse here and there around corners at the hospital. Derek also slips back into his silence and because you don't really know what you're doing here anymore, if not to repair the bridges you burned, the days start to slip past you.

There are things you notice of course: you've always had an accidental ear for gossip. Idly, you consider the conversation going on behind you without much interest.

_"Did you hear about Montogomery's ovarian torsion yesterday night?"___

_"I heard Karev scrubbed in."_

As though that implies something, you think to yourself, irritably. But because you have noticed that 'shiny and pink' seems to suit Alex Karev far too much, you stalk off to find someone to annoy, considering making that someone an intern. (You're really hoping to cross the path of Doctor Stevens because you're in the mood for cracking a few blonde jokes and watching as her hackles rise, slowly, as you redistribute body fat during an afternoon facelift.)

Unfortunately (you study the board) the only available targets are Grey and Karev. Given that you feel a strong desire to redistribute his facial features without your scalpel when you see his name next to Addison's you take the only-slightly-safer option of Derek's girlfriend. She's also a lot more convenient, being presently ambling towards you looking tiny in scrubs that swallow her.

"Grey," you bark.

She looks up, surprised, "Doctor Sloan?"

"You busy?" your tone softens in spite of yourself, but it still comes off gruff, as intended.

She shrugs, "They do keep us busy around here. Nothing I'm not keen to beg off."

"If you're feeling lacking in emotional perception and a great deal of apathy I might have a procedure for you to eyeball."

Meredith Grey is like the younger, female version of you complete with mommy issues, daddy issues, too much alcohol, too much pointless sex and a difficult relationship. She disarms you without trying, makes you feel better. It's nice to think that someone else views the world through the same haze of indifference and attempted self-destruction. Sure, things might be going ok between her and Derek this week, so maybe she's smiles for the moment. But you get the feeling that the kind of feelings that weigh someone so small down so much aren't the kind you can be rescued from, even by a knight in shining armour wannabe like Derek.

"I won't ask if you don't tell," she assures you; then adds, trying to stay on the right side of professional even though you consider it vaguely ridiculous given how entangled your personal lives are, "Doctor Sloan."

You scoff.

She looks at you sideways, but true to her word, makes no comment.

It's one of the rare afternoons that you appreciate Seattle Grace's teaching program. Describing a routine procedure and giving a running commentary on why your own technique is superior gives you a chance to insult some famous plastic surgeons you don't think very highly of (which always makes you feel better, doubly so if you have an audience) and distracts you from a bout of dangerous introspection about Addison, Derek, Seattle and what the hell you're doing with your life.

No one particularly appreciates your unique blend of humour and arrogance, but you don't particularly care for their opinions (pre-conceived and often ill-conceived misconceptions so let them be wrong). To your own credit, you do _give_ credit where credit is due, acknowledging the procedures patented by teachers you admired, doctors you studied under who knew what they were talking about. You're just not above cutting through some bullshit for the next generation.

Not that Meredith Grey will want a future in plastics. But it's a teaching hospital and so teach you will, even if it is under threats of legal suits for breech of contract or, more and less seriously at the same time, Addison's critiques of your lunch plans.

It's over soon enough and without a pretty little word from your intern, who is quickly becoming one of your favourites, something which you will never be able to tell Derek. Begrudgingly you will acknowledge that it's your fault, in this instance. You're letting the water run over your hands when it happens, unexpectedly.

"I made him go," she confesses suddenly, and here you were thinking you might almost make it out of a scrub room _without_ a heart-to-heart with an intern.

You offer her a displeased sigh in response.

She lifts an eyebrow at you, "Seriously?"

Now that, you admit, is a curious reaction to your utter indifference. Interest piqued, you dry your hands and turn to face her trying not to sound to derisive when you counter with a monotone, "What?"

"I should make some observation about your mother and manners," she smiles, taking your dismissive attitude in stride, which you do always like about Grey. Not annoyingly persistent, just unaffected. "But that might strike a nerve in both of us."

"Yeah," you agree.

She takes that as her cue to elaborate on her earlier statement and you also like that about her; she always takes your hints the way you intend them, "I made him go. That night when Addison called... I made him go."

You make light, "Dirty Mistresses Club membership benefits?"

She laughs quietly, "No."

And then she's sighing, leaning against the sink in the scrub room and staring into the empty theatre. It's almost a cliché among surgeons, to have deep, meaningful conversations up to your elbows in disinfectant after some major procedure. But this isn't life or death, just a truth she wants you to understand, "No I made him go because you're his person."

You're silent so she goes on, "You are, for better or worse and whether he likes it or not, the person who understands him the most. And I know things are _different_ now, because all-in-all you weren't a very good friend to him. But you get him. And sooner or later he's going to have to realise that. You're his person."

You shrug, "Maybe."

"Well," she turns her palm to the ceiling as she clasps it in a paper towel, "Whatever. I just thought you should know. You're not half as bad as people think."

"It's a shame you're taken Grey," you sigh, "You may be the only person in this hospital who's figured that out."

She fixes you with a disapproving stare then, "Well, you take painstaking lengths to conceal it, usually involving a nurse."

"Jealous Grey?" you tease, shifting gears seamlessly into the 'arrogant ass' territory that's so familiar.

She lifts that eyebrow at you again, and it reminds you of Addison so much you're torn between indulging that pang of _something_ inside your chest and putting your fist through a wall.

"Hardly," she retorts fluidly, breaking your preoccupation with a light, "I thought we'd put that issue to bed."

"Not literally," you smirk.

"Walked into that one," she admits, pushing through the door and into the corridor, looking back over her shoulder to add, "Should I take care of the post-op?"

You nod, "He shouldn't need much. The nurses can do almost everything."

"I'll keep an eye on it until he leaves tomorrow," she offers, disappearing.

You're paged to the pit, but on the way down you find yourself caught in the elevator with Addison. She smiles at you, her warm and inviting smile that usually, would give you the go ahead for some playful banter, teasing, a joke about OBGYN and a similarly biting slight on your chosen field of medicine. Today though, you're feeling her absence in your life outside the hospital a little too acutely, especially because you keep overhearing Alex Karev making her laugh. You can't find it in you to smile back.

She narrows her eyes, "What's wrong?"

Instead of answering, you just reach out and play with the sleeve of her lab coat where it folds around her elbow, "I don't know."

It's a lie, but it's easier than the truth.

She sighs as the elevator stops, "This is my floor."

You release her sleeve; let her go.

Then you spend the next fifteen minutes giving a particularly snotty rich woman (who reminds you of Addison's mother, who nearly always features on your list of reasons why you dodged a bullet there) the best sutures she'll ever receive (if you do say so yourself) and then fifteen minutes more flat out refusing to do anymore work on her because judging by the quality of the first three jobs, they were done by trained gorillas in wherever the hell kind of jungles gorillas hail from and you don't want to be sued when it caves in.

It heralds the end of your day so you unceremoniously sign your name (illegibly) on your charts and go in search of a drink, in part because you want to find something to make you forget about Addison and in part because you just need one.

You're nursing your first when you hear your own order in a familiar voice and then he slumps beside you in an identical pose but with a slightly fuller glass.

"Derek," you don't bother to hide the note of surprise in your greeting.

"Hey," he offers, taking a long gulp of amber liquid and swallowing.

You mirror the gesture.

"One of those days?" he asks, hand curling into a fist beside his glass on the bar.

"You could say that," you're ambivalent; nothing about today was particularly bad, it's just that nothing was particularly good either. "You look worse than me though."

"It's," he waves a hand, non-committal, searching for a way to explain and finally settles on, "_Women._"

"Amen," you raise your tumbler in a toast and he clinks his glass against yours.

"Happily ever after round two not going as planned then?" you say, when you've both emptied your glasses and are in the process of having them re-filled.

"She's frustrating," he answers, "I'm sure it'll... you know, it's just that at some point I want to be let in, I want to be trusted again. I regret it, not telling her about Addison from the start but," he runs his hand over his face, "God Mark, you have no idea how that timing screwed me over. I was going to tell her, that night, I'd planned exactly what I was going to say. But then Addison showed up here and well, by then, as you might imagine, Meredith was angry."

"Well," you shrug, "Can't blame her."

"No," he agrees with you, "But after all this, I leave Addison for her and she still doesn't... she still shuts me out," he pauses, "And I don't think there's any more I can do, except come here and bitch to my ex-best friend like a girl."

You smirk at that, "You've always been good at bitching like a girl."

He makes a rude gesture at you and downs another generous mouthful of scotch, "And you've always had the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"I've got no excuses," you tell him, "It's probably best you don't ask."

"Addison," he surmises.

You nod, barely, and add, "That about summarises the situation. I'll get over it."

"Yeah," he echoes your sentiment softly.

You settle into a somehow comfortable silence then, not really needing to fill the silence with conversation about things you've already talked about, or worse, the weather.

"Come on," he says impulsively, throwing down a generous wad of bills on the bar top, "I want to show you something."

You down the rest of your scotch and echo his gesture, hiding your surprise and agreeing with a small shrug, "Ok."

And an hour later, you're admiring the lights of Seattle twinkling in the distance from a property in the middle of nowhere as he stakes out his future house and you slowly work your way through a bottle of his favourite single malt.

"This is my view," he announces.

You take a breath of the air. It smells like pines and wilderness.

"It's great," you say honestly.

"Yeah," he chuckles a little at your response, "Not really something you appreciate though."

You shrug, "It's the kind of place I'd visit, not choose to live. But it is a great view."

"Better at sunrise," he says, then flops down on the dewy grass with the bottle.

You sit beside him, "Is this one of your gestures of goodwill?"

He shrugs, "I'm never going to get rid of you completely. May as well grin and bear it and enjoy your uncouth ways of expressing yourself."

You grab the bottle from his hands and take a swig, "You give as good as I do."

He falls backwards and lies, looking up at the stars, "It's so clear out here. I mean, on a cloudless night."

"Yeah," you recognise several constellations, "I haven't seen this many stars in years."

"You taught me once," he recalls, "Which one was Orion's Belt. It must have been a school camping trip in junior high," he points it out, "And ever since, whenever I've been able to see stars, I've picked it out."

"Hope you used it to pick up at some point," you smile, "I think that's why I learnt all of those in the first place, to impress girls."

"Yeah," he laughs, "I tried that on Addison. Mistake, her knowledge of the subject vastly outstripped my own."

"As it did on most subjects," you jibe good-naturedly.

"Too true," he laments.

You talk for a long time then, pausing to drink every now and then and it reminds you of the conversations you used to have in college, when you climbed up onto the roof of your dorm building and lay there for hours, stomaching cheap liquor and debating the meaning of life. Of course you don't talk about that now, but you both share stories, your recollections of your extensive shared past. You tease him about his first kiss and he teases you about taking his sister to Prom.

You watch the sky change colour as the time passes, but you never seem to run out of things to say, even avoiding subjects like Addison and marriage. You missed this; you complement each other in many ways, Derek's always had a romantic philosophical way of viewing the world and you've always been more of a scientist; as a kid you had a wild imagination of course, but you were always about hows and whys. Your individual perspectives enrich the other's.

"How much of this land do you own?" you ask after a lull in the conversation.

"Several acres," he admits, "After New York, being out here, it was such a change. I decided I liked it the way it was."

"You know, it'd be great to race the bike through here."

He sighs, but it's not as resigned as you've come to expect sighs to be, "I haven't done that in years. Ever since," he pauses because you interject with, "That time. Back home at your mother's at Christmas."

"And Addison," he laughs genuinely at the memory, "Woah boy. She was pissed."

"Addison never was good with personal emergencies," you remark.

"You just say that because she was so worked up about the scratch on my cheek that she basically left you for dead."

"I still called shotgun on the sutures," you smirk, "Besides that time I came out here, last year? You gave me a matching one."

"You're telling me your sutures haven't improved since medical school?" he teases, "Lord, what are these patients of yours paying for?"

You reach out and slap his arm, "Well, you can barely see mine of course. And it's a much more recent scar. Still, you should be glad I didn't let Addison do it. You never want someone that mad to be stitching you up."

"I suppose I could get a bike again," he muses, "Since apparently Addison and I have no legal right to interfere in each other's lives anymore."

"And the idle threats of divorce are without weight at this point," you add.

He sighs, but moves on quickly, "I don't think Meredith would mind. Provided we let her and Cristina join in."

"Strikes me as that kind of girl too," you tell him, "She's not half-bad."

He turns sideways and looks at you, accusingly, "Does this mean I should be worried?"

"No," you answer defensively, "And besides I think that ship has sailed, not for want of trying," you see his reaction in the corner of your eye and add hastily, "A long time ago. Pre-divorce. Casual flirting. You ploughed through my face with wedding rings, she was at a bar nursing her daddy issues over a tequila?"

"Yeah well," he huffs, "Given our history with women."

"Have a little faith," you tell him, "I think she's pretty much Miss Iron Panties except for you."

"You're practically the panties whisperer," he says dryly, "Chastity belt or no, you seem to find ways."

"I told you ages ago that there's no secret," you complain, "You think I wouldn't have shared it?"

"Probably not," he retorts lightly, "You never did tell me how you read that fast as a kid."

"Practice," you smirk, "It's my secret. About books and women."

He changes the subject, "So, what do you think?"

"Of the land?" you begin, "Great view, lots of it. Of the trailer? Very you Derek, idealistic and impractical and without lasting hot water."

"I get plenty of mileage out of the hot water," he counters.

You just look sideways and resist the urge but he follows your train of thought and calls you on it, "Immature."

You shrug, "I cling to the little vestiges of youth."

The sun starts to rise then.

"Mom will be so happy," Derek says quietly, as you watch the sky change colour and the full extent of his view becomes obvious, "That we're speaking again."

"I can't imagine she'd have many favourable things to say about Addison or I," you admit, ashamed, because Mrs Shepherd wasn't your mother but she still raised you for the most part, and not to be the kind of person that would sleep with his childhood best friend's wife. Then again, she probably didn't expect you to date her two oldest daughters either and if you managed to get through those relationships unscathed in her eyes, surely her affection is fairly resilient.

"No," he agrees, "But you know mom, always used to say it took two to fight, even when one of the girls clearly started it."

"She's proud of you, you know," you tell him, because he says it in a resigned sort of way that makes you think he might have forgotten.

"Oh I know," he shrugs it off, "She's proud of all of us, even you. But mom never looks for the faults in anyone. Besides, I think you're generally considered the family's prodigal son by proxy."

You smile at that, "Your mom Derek, she's a saint."

"Yeah," he nods, "I know. And Nance is always on me about getting you to call too. Said something about you when she was here, how sleeping with you was a rite of passage," he narrows his eyes, "You both told me you never did."

You shrug sheepishly, "She didn't want me to tell you. Besides, with her, the rite of passage was non-specific to me; could've been any other sweaty-palmed teenager."

He groans at the image, "I liked it better when we didn't talk about you sleeping with my sisters."

"_Sister_," you correct.

"Kathleen?"

"As pure as undriven snow when we broke up, if you favour Clinton's position on the issue."

"You and your way with words," he stands and brushes himself off, "Come on, I'll drive you into the hospital, we can stop on the way for a change of clothes."

You pick up the empty bottle from where it lies beside you, "Thanks."

He claps you on the shoulder and you both turn into the sunrise, shielding your eyes from the light.


	12. Bright Lights On A Cold Night

**Chapter Twelve: Bright Lights On A Cold Night.**

The coloured lights are blurred; obscured against the dark background which laps against the pier. It's cold; your breath is misty white on black. You watch as she tucks her hair behind her ears and leans against the railing, exhaling dramatically and shoving her hands into her pockets.

"How'd we get here?" she whispers, after minutes of silence.

To the non-observant observer, someone watching without watching, you might look like strangers. But you stand too close; the sleeve of your coat brushes against hers when you lean into her instead of offering a suitable answer. This meeting was an accident and neither of you spoke to greet the other. You've been standing for five minutes staring out over the lights of Seattle reflected in its water and neither of you has spoken until just now.

There was an unspoken agreement that the silence was not to be disturbed for trivial things like polite conversation. You recognised her as soon as you saw her and when she met your eyes seconds later, you both knew the other was here to think, not necessarily to be alone because God knows, aloneness isn't something you desire anymore, but to be free of the suffocating restrictions of social custom, the obligation to respond when someone speaks to you, the constant bustle beneath fluorescent lights that is your day job. You came here to be quiet without silence because an empty hotel room on the twenty-second floor is deaf to any noise from outside.

You look at her and you struggle to rearrange the thousands of tiny pieces in your mind, scrambling fragmented recollections and insignificant details stored in your memory to be neat and chronological but upon finishing, they're just as chaotic as before. You search to answer her question and see her in three different places in time, her mouth forming the same words.

_"How'd we get here?" she asks, staring into the empty OR in wonder, her hands still dripping over the scrub room sink.___

_"Four years of med school, one year of internship and ten hellish months of residency?" you quirk an eyebrow at her incredulously and smile a little at her unamused reaction.___

_You watch as she shakes her hands dry and pass her a paper towel. You both stare through each other's reflection and into the dark room in front of you. She reaches up to unpin her wedding rings from the salmon scrubs and sighs, "But aren't you still amazed that this is happening to you; that you're standing there and there's someone living and breathing with a beating heart lying on the table in front of you?"___

_She slaps your arm as the sides of your mouth curl upwards into a smile.___

_"Don't laugh at me," she chides, "I've dreamt about this since I was a kid."___

_"I know," you say simply, "You were great in there. You've got steady hands."___

_"I was so scared," she confesses, holding them out in front of her and staring. Her left pinkie trembles slightly, "I'm still slightly right-hand dominant."___

_You reach out and curl your fingers around her wrist, thumb trailing along her forearm, and feel her tense beneath your touch. She inhales sharply and watches as you grip her slender wrists.___

_"Relax," you tell her, "You're trying too hard to keep it still."___

_Her hand is perfectly still so you release her wrist and she exhales in a rush._

She breathes again and slumps forward against the railing. You watch her hair, raspberry in the light, dangle toward the calm ocean. The water is swirling like black ink in the dark; a distorted mirror image stares back at the both of you.

_"How'd we get here?" she asks, eyes still rimmed with tears, "He... we were so in love Mark, how'd that all change? I still feel like I'm wearing that stupid white dress with the fairytale skirt, dancing with a glass of champagne in my hand and yet, all of a sudden it's dark and cold and I'm lonely, all the time."___

_You sigh and cover her bare shoulder with your warm hand, squeezing lightly.___

_"Seriously, how did this happen? Ten years ago we were all so happy; Derek loved me and you were his best friend and we had a good-natured hatred for each other and..." she trails off, "How did we get here? To this?"___

_You slip your jacket from your shoulders and throw it over hers, "We grew up," you offer, "We became adults, whenever that happened, and suddenly we were obsessed with eating right and working out and saving money and investing for our retirements and getting ahead and being boring," you crease your mouth in disgust, "And being everything we promised we wouldn't be."___

_"How do we make it stop?" she sighs, leaning against you and resting her head on your shoulder.___

_You run your hands along the cold concrete steps the hospital and shrug slightly, "We can't."_

She straightens. You reach out and pull the hair from her eyes, pulling it over her shoulder and watching as the wind whips it out from beneath your fingers, a cloud of red billowing out behind her.

_"How'd we get here?" she asks, breathless, lips swollen, the skin around her mouth wet and pink. You reach up to brush her hair from her face, the back of your palm brushing against her cheek.___

_"In the usual way I imagine," you remark lightly as she shifts against the sheets, the rustle of paper accompanying the labs marked 'positive and consistent with four weeks'.___

_She laughs a little and falls back against the pillows, her hair a sharp contrast to your white sheets, "Two months ago, I never would have thought you'd be happy."___

_You smile at her and let your chin rest against the warm curve of her stomach. She clasps her hands behind your neck as your brush your lips against her skin and say, "Things change."_

"I don't know," you say, because you don't.

She sighs at your honesty, "I know. I can't figure it out myself."

"Addison," you begin, but she shakes her head, "Mark, I've been thinking..."

You steel yourself because you know what's coming.

"I just," she digs her fingernails into her arms; you watch as the manicure catches on the fabric of her coat, "I'm afraid all the time. I know... I know everything is different but it's not, not really. I want it to be but," she shakes her hands free for emphasis, "Now I'm rambling. The point is I just need some time. I need to figure out who I am. I need to be on my own because for so long I haven't been, for so long I've _needed_ someone, I just don't think I can do it anymore. I can't... "

You hold up a hand to stop her, "Addison."

She looks up, seemingly surprised that you're actually there. You let her blink at you while you fight back a vague, distracted but still irrepressible grin, just at the sides of your mouth. Your eyes aren't behind it. You don't actually feel the sentiment it belies; it's just force of habit, your brain remembering the fondness that usually fills you up inside falling down behind your lungs into the pit of your peritoneal cavity. It has always happened when she loses herself in her thoughts. You love her mind that makes her sentences run together because it runs faster than her mouth. It reminds you of your own.

When you are silent she is surprised, thinking you interrupted because you have something to interject but you don't. You just recognise how her anxiety speeds up her halting sentences and you don't want her to feel that; trepidation at this moment should be your feeling alone.

You try to swallow but your mouth is dry, "Go on."

She sighs, all her words forgotten, "I. That's it. I have to ... put some distance between myself and all this mess. I have to think. I have to."

And there she stops, lost in her thoughts again and forgetting you can't hear them or maybe just not wanting you to know what passes through her mind in the intervening silent seconds.

You curl your gloved hands against the icy metal of the railing separating you and her from the coloured reflection of the city swirling below. You might as well be drowning at this point, you think; you've forgotten the last time you breathed.

"Mark," she begins again, eyes searching yours but somehow flat with resolve and a lifelessness that demonstrates the finality of her decision, "I'm moving to LA."

You look at her, "Addison."

"I know," she blinks suddenly, eyes wet though you can't tell if it's from the sting of a sudden wind or your own emotions mirrored in her.

"Please," she holds up her hand, "Don't make this hard."

You nod, wanting to reach for her but busying your hands in your pockets instead hoping to honour her request, "It's ok."

But you don't want to make this easy.

She breathes. Mist rises between you while she pauses, uncertain of how the scene ends. You have always felt a sense of perpetual motion around her so maybe she feels the same inertia, unable to walk away.

You step forward, nudging her toes until she looks up at you then catch her chin in your thumb and forefinger, "Have a safe trip."

"Oh Mark," she presses her face into your shoulder then, tightening her arms around you in a somewhat desperate embrace and you get a sense of what she means by needing to distance herself now. She's clinging to you, a buoy in the sea of the familiar. If you're honest you don't want her to hold on for that reason any more.

You kiss her temple and pull away, squeezing her palms before dropping her hands, "Goodbye Addison."

She doesn't bother with a fake 'promise me you'll call' which some part of you hopes for, because given the chance between her friendship or nothing you'd still take someone who knows you, someone who has watched your hair thin out and face crease as collagen degrades. She doesn't return the words either: her lips are pressed together as though she doesn't trust herself to speak. Gripping at her elbows she turns, walks into the darkness then pauses, turning to meet your eyes as you watch her go.

She surprises you, even in the end.

You used to think it was all biochemistry. She was just a little bit like a drug and it was just the damn monoamines. And that, you thought, was a good thing because it wouldn't last; unlike most things in life, if you ignored it, it would eventually go away. The only flaw in the science is that it hasn't yet.

_Fin._


End file.
